Citadel Saga: A Dancer, A Dectective
by masseffectforfunz
Summary: Neve Cezetti is a wannabe dancer at Shadow Matter, the newest hottest club on the Citadel. When she makes her debut on the satellite stage she attracts more than the limelight. An asari businesswoman takes a fancy to her, but the alien's attention lands her in a C-Sec detective's cross-hairs. Who knew dancing could be so much trouble?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Girl, You Better Work**

In six minutes I'll take Shadow Matter's satellite stage for the first time. I've worked here for a month and a half and, finally, I've got my chance. Dancers make more than casual hostesses and I need more credits if I ever want off the Lower Wards.

My clammy hands make difficult work of the illuso-weave outfit assigned to me. When it's on I still feel naked. Slick material clings to me like a membranous second skin. The costume defaults to metallic red. Asari look fantastic in red. Warm, vibrant colors pop against their blue skin. I'm not an asari and, on me, red is garish. Using the adaptive interface next to this primp station's mirror, I transform my attire.

"Three minutes, Neve," Yashia calls from the staging area.

My heart pounds a rapid backbeat. Who needs Shadow Matter's sound system? The rhythm of my over-clocked body already has me sliding from foot to foot. I don't need Hallex to peak me out. All I need is a stage.

Trembling fingers trip over the last of the interface settings. My costume shifts from red to black. Black suits my pale skin and dark hair and my Event Horizon sheath-boots. Yashia turned me on to the Illium brand. Once my legs are shrink wrapped in the thigh high boots, I'm ready to warm up.

Gripping the top of my primp station's chair, I dip into demi plié when someone yanks me to the right.

"Girl, would you get out here!" Azure fingers bracelet my wrist. Yashia hauls me into the shadowy staging area. Light from the greenroom we've left gleams off the bronze illuso-weave that films her body. "Don't make me sorry I called in favors for you."

Bodies crowd the darkened staging area. Feminine voices protest as Shia and I shove through. Powder and perfume and sweat scents the throng of waiting dancers. A group number follows mine. Flashy costumes and choreography in case I blow my debut. Sharp click-click-clicking spikes over the dancers' murmuring. Someone's chopping a Hallex line. Snorting Hallex heightens the drug's effects. It's also the easiest way to OD. I try twisting out of Shia's grasp. The asari's fingertips dig into my skin.

"Shia, someone's snorting—"

I lose my words when Shia pulls me close. Front to front, our bodies brush. Her hands clasp my cheeks.

"Stop looking for a reason to screw this up. My ass is on the line here too. My reputation. Whoever's lining Hallex can handle herself. And if not, that's one less girl between you and the limelight."

Shia kisses me hard and quick and leaves my mouth sticky with honey-gloss. Pivoting me towards the stage entrance, she slaps her hands on my shoulders and shoves. I'm onstage just as the emcee completes my intro.

"—the mesmerizing Persephone!"

Light blinds me. My arm goes up, shields my eyes. This is not part of my routine, but the audience doesn't know that yet. Music swells. My other arm comes up and I raise them both into a graceful variant of fifth position. I move.

The Shadow Cabaret is a wash of violet and blue light. I'm suspended high above the floor. On the satellite stage I have a bird's eye view of this half of the club. Eyes sparkle under the roving spots. Alien eyes, human eyes, all eyes gaze at me. A human might recognize the music I've selected, but with all the colonies you never know who's got a handle on old Earth culture. I dance to a synth-scratch bastarzion of Tchaikovsky's _Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy_. This feed sounds like delicate evil and it fuels my performance.

The repetitive flare of an FXed omni-tool distracts me. I don't go off step, but the eastern segment of the cabaret commands my attention. That's the point of an FXed omni-tool. People who get all those customized light effects and sounds want everyone to know when they're dropping a load of credits. The humans around the large table at the east end are dropping like meteorites. I bet Sarc is pleased. My boss loves human high rollers, even loud obnoxious ones like the group making obscene finger-and-tongue gestures at me.

I finish my number spot on and the stage goes black. The crowd claps, whistles, cheers, and there's no time to enjoy it. Asari butt against me as I scoot offstage. Shia passes and pummels my arm.

"Better than a Creeper fugue," she says.

Another asari, I think her name's Celera, hangs on Shia's arm.

"How'm I supposed to dance when my nose is on fire?"

Backstage welcomes me as the group number starts. I hug myself. Sarc Pozt has to give me a permanent dancer position.

He has to.

* * *

My boss meets me at the bottom of the stairs to the satellite stage. I know it's uncharitable, but in his pressure suit, Sarc Pozt looks like a squat panda-elephant. Susurrations from his suit garble whatever he says to me. When I ask the volus to repeat himself, his suit wheezes.

"Get out on the floor, Earth-clan. There are others," _shush-hiss_ goes his suit, "other Earth-clan disrupting my clients. Take care of them."

I fold my arms. "Do I need Zargt?"

"No." _Shush-hiss_. "I do not want them bounced. I want them settled down. Spending credits." _Shush-hiss_. "Calm."

"Right. What about my number?"

"Yes, yes, lovely, I'm sure, Earth-clan. Take care of this and you'll dance more. No more hostessing."

"On it, boss." I salute him like an Alliance officer and head out to the floor. Sarc calls after me.

"Quickly, Earth-clan. Dalessia Kella is here. She must leave Shadow Matter wishing to return."

Dalessia Kella, Dalessia Kella. Where have I heard that name? Vids? The extranet? Shia prattle? She must be a big deal if Sarc's taking care of her himself.

The Shadow Cabaret is packed. Every table's occupied and every seat at the bar filled. Conversations tangle in an undulating hum. Subdued music plays over the crowd's collective voice. Holographic projections, featured dancers sculpted of neon light, tease the stage overhead. Most are asari, but a couple are human. One day my holographic ghost will tempt clients too. Tonight, I'm back in hostess gear.

All casual hostesses wear the same thing. Our skin tight sheath dresses cover us from neck to toe. Slits in our skirts reach from ankle to thigh. Casual hostesses, like me, wear black. Resident hostesses wear white. Resident hostesses only work the Shadow Lounge. Casual hostesses cater to clients in the lounge and the cabaret. We go where we're needed. I'm needed in the Shadow Cabaret's east end.

I groan. The Earth-clan steaming Sarc in his ammonia are the same FXed omni-tool jackasses I spotted from the stage. Rolling back my shoulders, I steel myself for this encounter. They won't recognize me in my hostess outfit.

"The asari goddess of sluts had blessed our table." The leader of this group has the non-accent of a colonist. Strobing color dances over the orange glow of his FXed omni-tool. I have to shut him up. I don't know exactly why Dalessia Kella is a big deal, but I know she's asari. If she overhears this idiot's crap about asari slut goddesses Shadow Matter's rep will go down in flames along with my budding career.

"How about a table dance, Persephone?"

How did I get the one drunk on the Citadel unimpaired by his drink?

Leader cracks his half empty tumbler on the glossy table. His buddies follow suit. Four humans and one salarian pound their glasses on the table like a giant tribal drum. Amber colored liquor splashes the hematite surface. Most ignore the racket. Then the rowdy group starts chanting.

"Ta-ble dance! Ta-ble dance!"

A turian a few tables over stares. Pin pricks of light glitter in his shadowed eye sockets. I squint at him and his head swivels in the opposite direction, skull crest pointing at me. His colony markings looked familiar.

"Gentlemen," I say with my eyes on the possibly familiar turian. "This isn't Chora's Den."

"No shit." One of the others pipes up. They've stopped shouting and pounding. "We'd be there right now if some asshole spectre hadn't shot the place up. It's closed for the next month."

That's news. I hadn't heard Chora's Den closed down.

Hands capture my hips and bring me into Leader's lap. I feel him through his trousers.

"So, Persephone," he whispers in my ear, breath clouded with Silver Star bourbon. "How about a lap dance?"

I wrench away. Leader brings me back down. The turian stands.

"Come one, Persephone. Dance for me."

Another hand lands on my shoulder.

"No." The well dressed asari stares down the entire drunken pack. "This one's dancing for me."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: I'm Your Private Dancer**

Dalessia Kella led the human hostess away. Dakan sat in his chair. He's watched Kella since she's arrived on the Citadel three days ago. He'd watched Persephone since her debut on the satellite stage. Now, both were gone, secreted away to one of the satellite rooms upstairs.

That wouldn't do.

Putting Kella under twenty-four-hour surveillance wasn't possible. Her Presidium apartment was well fortified. Once the Illium transplant settled in her new offices, he might have better luck maintaining his vigil. For now, he'd cheat.

A flick of his wrist activated his omni-tool. He picked out a message on the interface with one talon. Without the weight of his armor, every movement felt sudden. Quick movements drew attention. Undercover work demanded discretion. Interfering with the humans and that little dancer would have been a mistake. Kella's interference saved him the trouble.

A blinking arrow icon on his omni-tool let Dakan know Sam received his message. The turian scanned the cabaret while he awaited his Network contact's response.

"Can you believe that shit? That blue bitch poached our piece."

The loudmouthed humans gathered around the largest table in the cabaret sulked over their drinks. Their salarian buddy had passed out. His head rested on the table, outstretched hand clutching his glass. Dakan recognized most of the low level thugs from their C-Sec files. The alpha of the group, Jarrod "Razorback" Riget, had worked for the former owner of Chora's Den, the late Fist.

C-Sec could thank Commander Shepard, the first human Spectre, for disposing of a nasty, krogan sized chunk of the Citadel's crime syndicate. They could also thank her for loosing a whole bunch of petty crooks off their leashes. Fist was scum, but he'd served certain purposes. Since the krogan's death, the Lower Wards' crime rate had spiked.

One of C-Sec's own had assisted the Commander in her sting. Dakan didn't know Garrus Vakarian personally, but he'd heard stories. Guys the turian worked with made a big stink after Garrus jumped ship and joined Shepard. Word was Vakarian considered himself above the law. If so, then good riddance. A dutiful turian would never let his personal agendas interfere with his responsibilities as a member of C-Sec.

Flashing colors in Dakan's periphery made his head turn. Whenever Jarrod moved his arm, his omni-tool drew the turian's attention. The man swigged from his tumbler.

"Don't seat it, Kev," Jarrod said to his outspoken comrade. "We'll get our dance."

Dakan drummed his fingers against his chin. Talons clicked against his carapace. The humans' grumblings made him uneasy. Could mean trouble later. An incoming message activated his omni-tool. Ignoring Kev's continued blustering, Dakan manipulated the interface and accessed his mail.

_You keep pinging me for favors and you'll be broke in the next month._ Dakan smiled at Sam's response. _In case you forgot, you already owe me two dinners and four rounds. We're talking human eats, not turian._

_I'd never poison you, Sam,_ Dakan replied. _Who else would I get to don my work for me? Add another round to my tab. I need you to patch into the private rooms in Shadow Matter's cabaret. You're looking for a human and an asari. Route the feed to my sig._

Another response came through seconds after Dakan sent his.

_You always get the best damn assignments._

* * *

In the satellite room it's me and Dalessia Kella.

This private area is soundproofed, but music from the cabaret vibrates the floor. Dancers get pings for satellite sessions on the terminals at their assigned primp stations. They also get p-bands, lite versions of omni-tools, to control mood settings in the satellite rooms. Since I'm not actually a dancer I don't have a p-band. I can't change our scenery or access any playlists.

"Something the matter?"

Dalessia lounges on the couch across from me. Under the blue overheads, her amethyst skin glows. I've never seen an asari with such dark, markless skin. Clad in a cream, sharp angled suit and matching pumps, she radiates elegance and, I think, a bit of danger. I like that.

"I'm new," I say. "Sarc hasn't upgraded my access. I hope you don't mind a beatless dance."

Shaped light gauntlets Dalessia's crooked left arm. From her omni-tool she peruses her own sound files.

"I never go anywhere unprepared," Dalessia says. "When I saw you on stage a piece I heard back on Illium came to mind."

Music pipes from her omni-tool. The personal system doesn't have enough power to fill the room with sound, but it's enough. Dark harmonies thread through thunderous bass. Vocals struggle against the driving accompaniment. For too long I'm captivated by the song. I'm ignoring the client. Dalessia settles back onto the couch, spreads her arms across its back. Splashes of orange from her omni-tool highlight the left side of her face, her prominent cheekbones.

"Expel ten. A new band. They'll be big." Her teeth are pearls framed by berry stained lips. "Now," her eyes lock with mine. "Make me feel."

I take my cues from the music. The illuso-weave outfit I shed in the greenroom would be better for this performance. My hostess dress limits my movements and extensions. Making do, I showcase my upper body, arch my back. I spin and put my back to Dalessia. She should see all of me, every angle. When I go full frontal again I see she's bored. Her fingers flicker. The hour displays on her omni-tool.

Time to step up my game.

I close on her and her eyes widen. Dark, full lips curve in the barest smile. The couch gives under my knees when I straddle her lap. Her hips are wider than mine. I spread my legs to accommodate them. The fine material of her suit rasps against my thighs. Pomegranate leaf smoke clings to the material. Leather squeaks under our shifting weight. When the music peaks I'm undulating against her, my body a thrashing wave. I bring myself hard against her and capture her chin in the vee of my hand. Our faces come kissing close.

Throwing back her head, Dalessia laughs. There's fruit wine on her breath.

"All about you isn't it?" She asks.

I slump on her lap. This isn't the reaction I expected. My throat tightens. I swallow the hurt.

Dalessia urges me off her lap with a gentle hand. The music and her laughter fade. Next to her on the couch, I let my head rest on the seat's cushioned back, drape an arm over my forehead. In my periphery, the haughty asari gives me the once over. She speaks.

"Intimacy isn't your forté. You're not connecting with your audience." She drums her fingers near my ear. "But you're not risk shy and you certainly command a stage."

I push off the couch. This failure of a satellite session is over.

"Wait a moment, Persephone." Dalessia's inflection mocks my stage name.

I pause on my way out and turn. Insults reproduce behind my lips. I can't disrespect a client.

Fishing in the interior of her jacket, Dalessia reveals a swatch of the coral camisole under her suit. Like a magic trick, a card appears between her long fingers. She offers the card to me. I take it. The paper stock is thick. It's real paper. Raised lettering banners its front.

Band Cluster Agencies

Dalessia Kella – Agent

Presidium, Tier 6, Suite 12

"Come to the Presidium tomorrow. I'll have Sarc give you clearance to that level." Dalessia stands, adjusts her suit.

I gape at the card, then at the asari.

"When should I—"

"Whenever." The asari dismisses herself.

Alone in the satellite room I recall why Dalessia Kella is such a big deal. Her card flutters in my trembling hand. Band Cluster Agencies hosts the most prestigious talent in the known universe. Models, singers, actors, artists, Band Cluster snares them all and immortalizes their names. Dalessia Kella is the heart of the agency. She manages the best of the best on Illium and I've made round two of her audition.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me**

When my shift ends I leave the club with a bounce in my step. My bag containing my hostess gear and my datapad jounces off my butt as I take the stairs down from the greenroom two at a time.

Shadow Matter's on Zakera Ward close to the point where the view of the Serpent Nebula takes your breath away. The club's a set of double-decker octagonal rooms connected by a strip of hallway. Clients enter the club through the Shadow Lounge. This quieter room caters to executives and politicians showing off to other executives and politicians. Resident hostesses—space geisha—entertain groups of men and women with conversation and parlor games. If a client's mood shifts they venture into the adjacent cabaret for more exotic entertainment. Above both the lounge and the cabaret are sets of private rooms for clandestine meetings and intimate dances. There's a security suite and storage room at the back of the cabaret. Those rooms are off limits.

On my way out I pass Zargt. I slap his ass. The krogan manning the door growls at me and curls his upper lip, baring fang. Zargt's our bouncer. Sarc insists he wears a tux. A krogan in a tux is an interesting sight. I don't know how Sarc got the big lizard in a monkey suit. Probably with a lot of credits.

Zargt makes sure all the right sorts get into the club and bounces the bad sorts. Don't know how Leader and his awful friends got in. Probably with a lot of credits. The line of well dressed humans and aliens outside Shadow Matter stretches the length of the 900 block.

Shia's already outside waiting for me. Our shifts synch this week. Together, we stroll to the Rapid Transit station.

"So, tell me all about your first satellite session. I can't believe Dalessia Kella requested you, you lucky thing." Shia's brown eyes sparkle and she links her arm in mine.

Outside Shadow Matter Shia's a different asari. Instead of a crotchless illuso-weave bodysuit and g-string she wears a demure flow-dress patterned white and navy. The gold gilt decorating her scalp crest's raised scales is gone. Natural makeup highlights her cheeks, lips, and lids.

"The dance itself didn't go great," I say. "Dalessia thinks I'm better on stage that in person." I hang my head and lead Shia on, encouraging her to think the worst.

"Oh, Goddess, did she complain?"

My smile hides behind the screen of hair shielding my face.

"Nope. She invited me to her suite on the Presidium."

Grunting, Shia withdraws her arm from mine and shoves me.

"I can't believe you, Neve. Don't do those sorts of things to my head." Shia nabs my arm again.

We descend the stairs to the station. Our heels click on each step. An elcor passes on our right, heading up to the point we left. The wide steps accommodate his elephantine pads. Rich soil carries on the draft he kicks up, the smell of elcor hide. A kinetic ad paints the wall on our left. White silhouettes of human and asari dancers slither on a magenta field. Magenta oscillates into twilight hues and the dancers become the words "Shadow Matter." Animated arrows point the way we came. The following ad is for Zakera Café. My tummy urps. I offer it a placating stroke. There aren't enough credits in my account for a nice café meal.

At the transit terminal Shia calls up a skycar.

"I'm meeting some people over in Shin Akiba," she says over her shoulder. "Want to come? There's a new gallery showing gorgeous waterlight sculptures. Human, I think."

I shake my head. "I don't want to be hung over on the Presidium tomorrow." Just saying "Presidium" gives me a little thrill. "I need food and sleep."

"Killjoy. Some Hallex would perk you right up."

"You know I don't dose."

"Trust me, everyone at Shadow Matter knows that."

Shia's skycar pulls into its pen and the door pops open. She lowers herself into the leather interior. Before the cabin door seals shut she calls to me.

"Good luck with Dalessia tomorrow. When you get super famous remember the hot asari who got you on the satellite stage." She pats the underside of her head crest then points at me. "I want a spot in your entourage."

The skycar cabin closes and the cab takes to the skyways, propelling Shia into the neon splashed nightlife of Shin Akiba. It's my turn at the terminal.

As I punch in my destination my eyelids droop. There's no real "night" and "day" on the Wards. That luxury exists only on the Presidium ring. I don't get the benefit of simulated day and evening scenery, but my body knows it's sleepy time.

Tingles shiver up the back of my neck when I complete my skycar form.

Someone's watching me.

I whip around. The bag slung across my chest almost strangles me. There's no one watching but the cluster of asari and humans waiting for the terminal. A human woman frowns at me and checks the time on her omni-tool. I can't shake the fight or flight response itching up my extremities. On tip toe, neck craned, I search the rest of the station.

There's mostly volus and hanar at this junction. Those races occupy a significant portion of Zakera Ward. The humans and asari around me are likely venturing to their home wards or are in search of a livelier district. I turn and almost miss the strobing lights behind a clump of swaying hanar. Bright colors fracture in their jelly pink bodies like heat lightning through a cloud. Someone's behind them. Someone with an FXed omni-tool.

"Miss." An asari waves her hand in front of my face. I stare at her and, parodying my blank expression, she makes bug eyes at me. "Your skycar's waiting."

She's right. I'm holding up the terminal queue. Hopping into the cab, I nestle into the deep, cushy seats and close my eyes. When the car closes I'm alone and safe and speeding through the skyways.

Lots of people have FXed omni-tools, not just jerks who get handsy with me in the Shadow Cabaret.

* * *

Shalta Ward. The 200 block.

Scooching between a couple of salarians deep in argument, I spill out of the transit station.

Ah, the Lower Wards. Home sweet home.

Shalta-A avenue stretches from Presidium Junction all the way to Shalta point. Sub-avenues and unmarked back alleys network the ward, but as long as you can find Shalta-A you're never lost.

My apartment's in the 300 block. I had the cab drop me on 200 because all I have in my fridge is two bottles of white wine I imported from Earth five months ago. I bought them when a drunk Sarpa Systems exec left me a very nice tip. Food stalls and conveniosks line Shalta-A. I have to find one in my budget.

Transitioning from the Upper to Lower wards always lowers my spirits. Down here there are less boutiques and more stalls. Free roaming salesmen bark their wares. Some free roamers have orbit ads that continually rotate around their bodies. Tinny recordings attached to the ads loop ear-wormy jingles. Kinetic ads illuminate the walls of the Upper Wards. On the Lower Wards, the animated billboards shriek instead of seduce. Canary yellows, cobalt blues, and acid greens blind me as I scour Shalta-A. Wall animations skip and freeze and some are nothing but colored static.

Humans and salarians mill around the avenue stalls. I find a promising hibachi cart and peruse the menu terminal. A human seated at the cart bar argues with the salarian chef who speedily chops a heap of yellow onions on the sizzling bar skillet. A dizzle of golden oil bubbles and snaps when it splashes the super heated metal.

"There's a campa egg in my ramen." The human points a thick finger patched with hair at the offending item floating in his noodle bowl.

I purse my lips and keep reading. So far there's nothing I can afford. Campa eggs aren't listed as ingredients on any of this cart's quickie meals. Krogan are the single species who can eat the eggs without going into shock. I've seen this man run his campa scam down at Ban Lang's Noodle Slurps down on the point. He keeps an egg sac in his trouser pocket, then palms the campas into his bowl when no one's watching. C-Sec's busted him for it. I could hail a patrol officer from the menu terminal, but that would mean statements and a trip to the nearest C-Sec office and Mr. Greasy-Ducktail-I-Haven't-Shaved-In-A-Week-Scammer knowing my face.

On the Lower Wards, getting on the wrong person's bad side could bring you more than one evening's headache. Abandoning the hibachi cart, I slip off Shalta-A onto SA-4. This splinter alley leads right to Shalta-B where I know there's a conveniosk that won't obliterate the last of my credits. Instant eats is all I'll get tonight.

Midway down SA-4 I freeze. That watching-you tingle kisses my spine and slides up my back. A shiver ripples over my scalp. Behind me, at the gloomy mouth of the alley, dark shapes scatter and slide behind two of the Kai Rus building's jutting buttresses.

I have to get out of the alley.

Tired legs bring me to the end of SA-4. Even Horizon sheath-boots make sprinting hazardous. I skid onto Shalta-B and catch myself on a passing free roamer. The collision disrupts the salarian's orbit ad feeds and warps the music programming attached to them. Muttering curses, he pushes me off and stalks down the avenue.

Shalta-B isn't as crowded as I'd like. The 200 and 300 blocks are human centric. Even on the always bustling Citadel, humans maintain their day to night schedules. It's one AM. Most people are off the avenues, snug in their apartments and condos.

All Hours conveniosk is a beacon drawing me in. When its sliding glass doors hiss shut at my back I catch my breath, put a hand on my heaving chest. The human manning the check out terminal raises one eyebrow at me. A red tattoo snakes up his tree stump neck. I bring myself under control and sidle into the aisles. Red-rimmed, blue eyes follow me. I hear the door open and close. Someone else is in here with us.

Canned goods and add-water meals clog the shelves. I scoop come instant noodle cups into my arms and stack several cans of potted meat on top, steadying the fast food tower with my chin. I hate potted meat, but a bunch of heavy cans in a sack makes an excellent impromptu weapon.

A shadow falls over me as I exit the aisle. A big body blocks my path.

"Hello, Persephone," a deep, gravel choked voice says.

Everything I carry drops from my arms and clatters on the floor. Except one can clenched in my fist. I swing at the man who knows my stage name.

* * *

Persephone cocked back her fist and swung at Dakan. A swift sidestep brought him out of her range. The turian caught the dancer's wrist with one hand and knocked the can out of her grip with the other. When she brought her other fist around he caught that too. Her fingers circled his forearms. Locked together, they stood face to face—face to chest in Persephone's case—and stared each other down.

Cocking her head, Persephone squinted. The black fringe of overlong bangs framing her face fell to the side.

"You were at Shadow Matter earlier, weren't you?" Her grip on his arms relaxed, but she didn't let go.

"I was."

"What are you doing here?"

"Following you."

A dark crease shadowed the space between her brows and her gray eyes narrowed.

"Not like that," Dakan added. "A gang of humans tailed you out of the club. I followed. You need an escort to your apartment."

"Gee, thanks. What the hell makes you so noble?" A puff of laughter shook her chest. "Besides the whole turian thing."

Did she mock him?

"I'm a C-Sec officer. Nobility's my job."

This time she laughed outright. "I'll remember that the next time I see patrol bullying the Alliance moms in my complex. You don't look like patrol. Where's your uniform? Your armor?"

Dakan released the dancer, but kept his eye on her in case she tried to run. She stayed put. By human measures, this woman was beautiful. Black, straight hair fell to her hips. When she danced it swirled about her slight figure like a silk scarf. The flimsy scrap of a dress she wore, which nipped in tantalizingly at her narrow waist, brushed the tops of her tall boots. She knelt to gather her groceries. The garment's skirt fluttered and revealed a pale strip of her thighs.

"What?" Persephone glanced up at him while she gathered her items, aware of his attention.

"Nothing." Dakan lowered his sightline to his tunic. From the interior pocket he produced his holo-badge and flashed it at her. He'd done the same to the checkout terminal attendant when he'd entered the conveniosk.

"Guess that means you're legit," Persephone said and rose. Dakan followed her to the front of the store where the terminal clerk rang her up. The tattooed man behind the counter passed his scanner over each item and placed them in a plastic sack. Brown rings layered the dingy counter. A mug of stale coffee rested by the flickering terminal interface. Streaks of sticky residue trailed down the side of the ceramic cup. Dakan wrinkled his nose.

"You patrol?" Persephone asked while she entered her credit id into the terminal.

"Yes."

Lies came easy to Dakan as they did to most detectives. Persephone hadn't paid close attention to his badge or she would have known his rank. Noted also was her lack of an omni-tool. If her dinners came from conveniosks her credits were low. But her clothes were obviously brand. Interesting.

"The men following me." Persephone stared at the interface though she'd finished entering her data. "Are they the ones from the cabaret's east end?"

Her entire posture changed. She shrank, drew in on herself like the withered petals of a dying flower. Dakan didn't know why he did, but he laid a hand on the dancer's shoulder, squeezed.

"I'll get you home," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: OH NO! The Fight's Out!**

They got to the end of the 200 block before Razorback and his gang made their move. The dark-scape separating the 200 and 300 block was the logical choice for an ambush. Dakan knew that, so he was ready.

Four humans fanned out from their shadowed cover and barricaded the entrance to the 300 block. Razorback stood front and center. A short, spiky mohawk stripped his shaved head.

"What's the deal, Persephone?" Razorback's voice carried over the avenue splitting the blocks. "Too good for humans?" He gestured at Dakan.

The turian flashed his holo-badge which cast a circle of faint orange light on the ground. "Keep moving, gentlemen," Dakan said. Dropping his chin, he tipped up his head fringe in an aggressive display.

Two humans, the ones on the outer ends of the barricade, did as he ordered.

"Jarrod, man, ain't worth it," one of them muttered before slipping back into darkness. Hasty footfalls echoed down the unlit sub-avenue. Razorback and one other stood their ground.

Dakan bit off the curse that tap-danced on his tongue. He hadn't thought anyone in this crew had any backbone but Razorback. Kev, Jarrod's mouthy second man, surprised Dakan. Close cropped, peroxide white hair capped Kev's dark scalp. The man cracked his knuckles and performed a short back-and-forth boxer's dance. Someone was gunning for a fight. Razorback hadn't moved since half his crew had abandoned him. Calm assurance surrounded the human like a biotic shield. Not a good sign. Men that calm were usually armed.

Bringing his left arm down, Dakan bumped Persephone behind him. He kept his badge aloft.

"Hard of hearing, boys?" Charged silence swallowed Dakan's words.

Leaning forward, Razorback spat. White froth slapped the avenue.

"Fuck you, C-Sec." Razorback folded his arms and slouched. The posture said "Do something, turian. I dare you."

Two against one Dakan didn't mind, but he had a civilian under his protection. Persephone, besides a resident of the Citadel, was also a link to Kella. He couldn't risk the dancer in a firefight.

"You have a master plan for the forty patrolmen who'll swarm this area when I send out a backup signal?"

Barked laughter bent Razorback at his middle. Even Dakan had to admit his bluff came off hollow.

"Forty patrolmen?" Razorback wiped tears from his eyes. "You really think they're forty patrolmen this far down who aren't on the Blue Sun's payroll? Or Eclipse's? Hell, anyone with enough creds to pay them off?"

The dirty side of C-Sec. No one escaped it. An officer either participated or turned his head and ignored the stains other people put on his uniform. Behind a closed mouth, Dakan gritted his teeth while Razorback blustered on.

"If ten patrolmen showed, I guarantee they'd come from Kithoi or Zakera Ward. By the time they got here you wouldn't need any backup. Dead cops don't. So: fuck you, C-Sec."

The instant Razorback's hand flicked toward his waist, Dakan went for his own weapon. From the hollow of the curved plate shell that protected his vulnerable neck, Dakan pulled his compact Kessler V. The pistol discharged proton rounds. Shield shredding ammo did little to boost the weapon's image. It was an unimpressive gun—his hands almost engulfed the weapon—but effective. He popped off several rounds at Razorback as he shoved Persephone back onto SB-2. Razorback returned fire. Cryo rounds traced the path of their retreat. Dakan was too busy securing cover to note the illegal mod Razorback used. Sounded like a Brawler.

"Oh, my fucking, God! Oh, my fucking, God!" Persephone hunkered behind the structure buttress Dakan commandeered for battle cover and put her hands over her ears. Groceries in her plastic bag shifted. Canned goods clunked.

Most free standing buildings on the Citadel had built in structure buttresses. These geometric fins gave the buildings extra support. Simulated gravity on the Citadel could do funny things to new architecture. Added support prevented collapse. Buttresses also provided insta-cover for unexpected firefights. Like this one. With no armor or energy shields, a single, well aimed shot could drop Dakan. He patted the metal fin like a faithful pet and peeked around its side, Kessler V ready.

Scanning the terrain meant exposing himself. Dakan had no choice. In the scramble for mutual cover he hadn't seen where Razorback and Kev had ducked. Someone yanked on the back of his tunic. The Kessler misfired when he stumbled. A round exploded on the ground near his pointed toes. Scorch marks patterned the sub-avenue with a smoky starburst. Persephone shrieked.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Dakan shouted. Persephone had yanked him behind cover, had wasted one of his rounds, and had, by proxy, almost blasted off one of his toes. When she spoke, her voice was a whispered hiss.

"Are you crazy poking your head out like that? You'll get shot." Her eyes were wide, fearful.

Dakan's heart thumped so loud he covered his chest with one hand, certain she'd heard. "I appreciate your concern…" Why was it so hard to speak with her looking at him like that? "But I can't shoot back without checking my target."

"You could be killed."

This conversation was straight out of an action vid.

Resisting the urge to put his arms around Persephone, Dakan merely said, "Don't worry about me," in his best stoic voice.

"I'm not. I'm worried about me." Persephone slapped her chest. "You're the only thing between me and them. If they blow your head off I can't outrun them. Not in these boots. My feet are already killing me."

Dakan blinked. "Right. Of course." His heart rate stabilized, but the organ felt squished and sore.

"Isn't there anything else we can do that involves staying right here?" She pointed both index fingers at the ground."

"You can—"

A bright white shot pinged off the buttress's edge. Dakan had leaned slightly out of cover during his conversation with Persephone. Razorback had opened fire. By some miracle, the human had missed.

"Oh, my, God, what are you waiting for? Shoot him!" Persephone shoved Dakan completely out of cover. Shots chased him behind the buttress.

"Stop pulling and pushing me and let me do my job," Dakan said through gritted teeth.

Putting his back to the buttress, he raised his Kessler in his right hand and extended his left arm to Persephone. His omni-tool activated and lit the dancer's face. Orange light and sinister shadows demonized her.

"Access the C-Sec suite on my program panel," Dakan said. "Press the blinking exclamation icon. That'll send out the back up signal. If I die, you'll have a dozen other officers at your disposal." He placed particular emphasis on the word "disposal" and Persephone made a nasty face at him. As she reached for the glowing gauntlet, he swung halfway out of cover.

When Persephone had pushed him into the open, Dakan had had an eyeful of the terrain. Razorback concealed himself behind the buttress directly across from theirs in the opposite sub-avenue. A sliver of the man's body peeked from his cover. Dakan aimed—

Razorback rolled out of his cover and fired three shots. One clipped Dakan's arm, tore his tunic, and scuffed his carapace. The other two ricocheted off the buttress he ducked behind. He fingered the scuff mark on his carapace with a talon. Fragments of cryo round ice glittered at the frayed edges of his ripped garment. Didn't hurt much. He had to cut back on his aim time. No better moment than the present.

Angling into the unprotected sub-avenue, Dakan sighted what he could of Razorback, took his shots, and spun behind the architectural shield when the human returned fire. They repeated their duck-and-cover dance, neither of them hitting the other. Then Dakan struck Razorback's shoulder. Cursing, the human dropped back. The click-clack-clack of metal dropping and spinning over the ground prompted Dakan's leap from the safety of the buttress. Razorback had dropped his weapon. If Dakan was quick enough, he could take the human down now.

A pace or two from the 200 side of SB-2, Dakan halted mid-stride. His eyes darted over the nooks and crannies between himself and the entrance to the 300 block. Where was Razorback's second man? Where was Kev?

A shrill squeak from the section of the sub-avenue he'd left whipped Dakan around. His mandibles flared. There was Kev. Razorback's second man had flanked them. A thick arm cast across Persephone's chest pinned her to the human. Silver flashed at her throat; a switchblade. The plastic sack she carried dropped from her fingers and landed at her feet.

Head swiveling between the hostage situation and Razorback's position, Dakan edged back onto the 200 side of SB-2. He didn't speak until the buttress shielded his back. As he advanced, Kev retreated, pulling Persephone with him. The knife at her throat pressed into her skin. She gasped.

"Put the knife down," Dakan said.

"Put your gun down." Kev brought the blade tighter against Persephone. Its handle vanished in his meaty fist.

Dakan's Kessler, which he'd leveled at Kev, dipped. He kept his sightline trained on the knife. When the Kessler reached Kev's knees, the blade dropped a fraction from Persephone's neck. Dakan took advantage of that fraction. So did Persephone.

Many things happened at once.

Dakan fired at Kev's knee. Persephone elbowed the human in the chest. Her lithe, dancer's body slipped from his clumsy arm. Kneecap blown out, Kev screeched, crumpled, lost his knife, scrambled for the weapon. Darting forward, Dakan kicked Kev's knife away before the man reached it.

"No!" Persephone hollered somewhere behind him. Plastic rustled. Cans knocked each other. A gun reported. The discharged round zipped close enough to Dakan's face to give him a freeze burn. As he spun around, he heard Persephone's defiant cry. Like a morning star, she swung her grocery bag over her shoulder. The weighted sack cracked down atop Razorback's skull.

Razorback crashed chin first onto the avenue, knocked cold. Arms and legs akimbo, he lay still, fingertips just brushing his Brawler. Dakan toed the weapon out of reach and stowed his own pistol. Instant noodle cups and potted meat cans littered the area. Persephone plastered herself to the wall. Sweat shone on her face. Black hairs clung to her clammy cheeks. Her hands fluttered at her chest. On the ground to her right, Kev worked himself upright. The human whimpered, clutched his blown knee. Blood soaked his trouser leg.

"Well, I guess we're done here," Dakan said.

"What's going on down there?" A C-Sec patrolman, a blonde human female, edged into the sub-avenue, pistol drawn.

Dakan showed his badge. "I sent out the backup signal." He glanced at the men on the ground. "We've got two for pickup and medical attention."

"You mean three, right?" The patrolman holstered her pistol.

"The woman doesn't need pickup. She's with me."

"I meant for medical attention."

"Medical attention?" Dakan turned.

Persephone slid down the building's side. Shaking hands she held in front of her whitened face were gloved with blood. Her blood.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Can't You Hear That Boom-Ba-Doom-Boom Bass?**

"You're not going to die."

That's what the turian says to me. I don't believe him. Blood pours from the stinging slash on my chest. My skin burns and itches. Wet warmth soaks my dress. Red colors my tacky hands. They smell like rust.

"I'm s-so s-s-sorry." Breath catches in my constricting chest. Each rapid beat of my heart pushes blood from my body. Panic is killing me, but I can't calm down.

"There's nothing to apologize for." The turian catches my wrists, stops my flailing.

I nod. "Yes, there is." Tears blur everything. Blinking them back makes them overflow. They trace hot paths down my cheeks. "I was a complete bitch when you were trying to help me. I was just s-scared."

"I understand."

"Will you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

"Please. I don't want to die knowing—"

"Stop saying that. You're not going to die."

"I totally am!"

"You're totally not." A woman kneels next to the turian in front of me. Med whites cover her curvy figure. She holds a suction cup-like device in her gloved hands. "No one on death's doorstep wails this much."

The turian's mandibles flutter when he chuckles. I scowl at him. Who needs his forgiveness? Miss Emergency Response nudges the turian's leg with her hip.

"I need room to take care of her."

"Oh. Of course." The turian drops my hands and rises. I don't want him to leave.

I reach for him and Miss Emergency Response holds me in place with her free hand.

"Ah-ah, dollface. Leave the nice C-Sec officer alone. He has work to do."

"I'll be right over there," the turian says, I think, to me. He indicates a group of patrolmen documenting the scene of the firefight. Recorder programs on their omni-tools capture stills and vid of the area and cleanup process. One of them, another turian with white colony markings, picks out an entry on a datapad. His talons fly over the semi-transparent screen. My turian joins him.

"Alright, princess, here we go." When Miss Emergency response fixes the black suction cup device over my heart, well below my wound, I see the name tag fixed to the front of her whites. Evie lays a hand over the suction cup between my breasts and switches on the machine it's attached to. The machine is a black cube. An interface screen pops up during the activation sequence. I can't read it. Evie instructs me.

"You're going to count with me, princess. Count with me. One, two, one, two."

My voice joins hers. We count. On my second "one" the suction cup pulses at my chest. The machine synchs with my counting. My heart synchs with the machine. Its hummingbird flutter slows to a metronomic beat. The machine forces my calm. Vibrations roll through my body. At first, I tingle all over and my bones itch. After a minute, I'm numb, aware of my heart and my voice as I count.

"Good girl," Evie says.

Eventually, my enunciated numbers become incoherent mumbling. The synching device drains my panic and adrenaline and leaves me drowsy. Avenue tile is cool under my butt and thighs, so is the building at my back. I want to lie down, rest my cheek on the cold tile. My eyelids droop. Gravity shifts.

"Oh, no you don't." Hands grip my shoulders and right me. Evie's rubbery, med white gloves catch on my skin. "Keep counting, princess. You can sleep later."

I pick up the "one, two" patter again. Bowing her head, Evie assesses my injury. I increase my count range when I start tallying the gray strands glinting in her auburn hair. "Twenty-three" passes my lips when there's a twinge at my chest. Evie's doing something to the slash above my heart. Whatever she does doesn't hurt. Not exactly. It's nothing like the cold tickle of the knife opening a fiery path across my skin.

I remember spinning out of that asshole's arms. I remember the pain. Memories couple with Evie's uncomfortable tugging and stretching of my skin. An adrenaline spike jumps my heart out of its steady synch. My heartbeat and the pound of the machine hammer an irregular rhythm in my core. I reach for the synch machine's cup. My hand collides with Evie's.

"Put your hand down." Evie knocks away my arm.

Body twisting, I go for the cup again, claw at Evie's hands, the tool she holds.

"Ok, I see. You're out of synch. Hold on."

The pulling at my chest stops. My escalating heart rate doesn't. The machine's pulse intensifies. A small, invisible fist gently pummels the space between my breasts. The mechanical beat doesn't draw me in. Strangled, frightened sounds come from my open mouth.

"It's OK. It's OK. Focus." Evie's face swims in front of mine. I blink and blink. "What about the nice C-Sec officer? Can you focus on him?"

Gloved fingers pinch my chin and turn my head to the group of patrolmen gathering scene data. Evie calls for "Dakan" and the C-Sec turian from Shadow Matter looks our way. Whatever Evie shouts to him after that, I don't understand. Her voice is garbled and faraway. My vision tunnels on Dakan's face. Evie's demands interrupted his conversation with the other C-Sec turian. Though Dakan faces me, he continues speaking to the patrolman.

Turians frightened me when I first moved to the Citadel. Under low light, their severe features can be monstrous. I got used to them and the amphibious salarians after a month or two, but running into a turian in a dark place still gives me the momentary creeps. In the club, Dakan's eyes were sparkles of light in black, cadaverous sockets. From this vantage, I see his deep set eyes are amber, the same color as his distinctive colony markings. His stern expression reminds me of his promise to get me home and the reassuring squeeze he gave my shoulder in All Hours. I smile and I think he smiles back. It's hard to tell with turians.

"There we go," Evie says. "Back in synch."

My body numbs under the machine's pulse. Evie patches my wound. That disconcerting pulling sensation starts again, but I don't panic. Instead, I study Dakan's face, memorize his colony's pattern, notice chips at the ends of his fringe. Grooves in his carapace around his mouth look like cigarette lines. A worn face. A dependable face. There's a scar slicing down the right side of his neck. It starts at his jaw and disappears into his tunic's oval collar.

While Evie works, I wonder if Dakan got all his dings and scars protecting people like me.

* * *

"Forget it." I sit on the back of Evie's emergency response up-cart. The open top vehicle hovers a couple inches off the ground. The asshole that cut me is trussed up on the middle seat. He avoids eye contact. I want my bag and my food. I want out of here.

Evie puts a hand to her forehead. "You don't understand. I can't legally release you from my care until you've had an I-pac booster and an oral antibiotic flush."

"So, give them to me."

"I _can't_." Evie slumps. Her posture clearly communicates her exasperation with this argument. "You have to go to a clinic."

"Can't afford one." I hop off the up-cart. Evie blocks my escape with her body.

"Then come with me to the free clinic."

Yeah, right. She means Open Arms VI on the point. There are free clinics all over the wards offering simple treatment and medication for low income residents like me. Most of us don't go there. We either suck it up and suffer or drop a salary's load of credits on one of the regular hospitals. Everyone knows the Blue Suns monitor free clinic files. That's how they pick out future dosers. They bribe a clinic worker, tick off all the new names and addresses on the patient logs, then they pay you a little visit, get you on their payroll. The Blue Suns hand out free meds and slip in illegals once you're nice and comfy. Once you're hooked on illegals, you have to pay up if you want more. Don't buy from them and shit gets sticky. Evie's patched me up nice—I poke the bandage across my chest—but there's no way she's getting me anywhere near a free clinic.

"Forget it," I say and try to shove passed her.

"Princess." Evie catches my arm and squeezes. Hard. "I'm sorry you object, but you're coming with me."

I'm about to deck her and run when a pair of armored arms tangles with mine and hauls me off. The turian with the white colony markings pinioning me to his chest glares down at me.

"Don't make me tranc you." His threat comes out a half-growl.

I make a token struggle. Bossy C-Sec officer does something to my shoulders that makes me wish I hadn't. Pain shoots through my limbs and pulses at my lower back. Sparks explode in my vision. All my fight evaporates.

* * *

Dakan brought the clinic worker aside. "What's going on?"

Fingering the skin at her hairline, Evie said, "I can't legally release her until she's had a battery of antibiotics."

"You don't have any of those," Dakan shook his hand, conjuring the word, "kits with you?"

Officers shuffled around them, finishing their documentation, relaying their datapad reports. Behind Evie, officer Ribbek loosened his subdue hold on Persephone. The dancer hung in the turian's arms like a limp rag, head down, hair swishing like a veil over her face. Why did she fight so much?

"I have a few of them," Evie said, pulling Dakan back into the conversation.

"Then administer the antibiotics here. Save us all some grief. Woman's got a short fuse."

"Can't." Evie's hands went up. Obviously, she'd been around this circuit a time or two with Persephone. "I'm not authorized."

"I thought all first responders—"

When Evie's head went back and forth wisps of hair came loose from her ill-pinned bun. "I'm not a first responder." Brown eyes went to her white regulation boots. Gray streaks scuffed their toes. "I was the only trainee available. The clinic's swamped. No one else could leave. She has to come back with me so my supervisor can treat her."

"But if it's just antibiotics—"

"It's not that simple. I patched her up, but that cut of hers needs cleaning. She needs a doctor, not a trainee. If I give her clearance and she dies of an infection in a week it's my ass and I need this job." Evie ground her fists into her sides. Her lips pinched and worked themselves together.

Behind them, Persephone leaned her head against Ribbek's blue-armored chest. Dangling from the arms he'd hooked under her armpits, she swayed to and fro, hips twisting suggestively. Ribbek ignored her as best as any male could. When she got too cozy, the officer gave her a shake. Stifled laughter puffed out Dakan's mandibles.

"I'll get her to a clinic," he said.

"But my—"

"'Patient was remanded into C-Sec's custody.' That's what you put in your report."

Once Evie started nodding, Dakan knew he was in the clear. The clinic trainee turned toward her up-cart. Dakan touched her shoulder before she clomped off.

"I think you left some of your equipment in the sub-avenue."

Evie squinted into SB-2. "Thanks. I get written up for missing equipment."

While Evie scoured SB-2 for equipment she wouldn't find, Dakan paid her up-cart a visit. Stretched out on the cart's middle seat, Kev had propped himself up on his elbows. The human reached for his knee, swollen three times its normal size. Long chains tethering him to the cart clinked. They were attached to metal cuffs circling his wrists. He prodded the wraps of sterile bandages cocooning his shattered joint. At the sight of Dakan, Kev hissed out a curse and laid himself flat. He crossed his arms over his face. Razorback hadn't required medical treatment for his mild concussion. Fist's former henchman was now booked in the main interrogation room at the midway C-Sec office on Shalta Ward.

A big, green medical bag squatted on the back seat of the up-cart. Dakan pinched open its clasped top and rummaged through rolls of sterile wrappings, one use syringes, pads, and equipment all sealed in plastic vacu-tight packaging. There were four antibiotic kits, I-pacs, in one of the interior pockets. He swiped one and tucked it in his tunic, then he approached Ribbek and his feisty captive.

When Dakan's shadow touched Persephone's booted toes, she threw back her head. Long hair whipped Ribbek's face. The officer snorted. Thin strips of medical tape fixed a diagonal swatch of bandage to the dancer's chest. Inflamed skin, pink with irritation despite the topical pain relievers, surrounded the treated area. Malicious gray eyes warned Dakan he'd better expect trouble.

"I'm not going to any clinic," Persephone said when Ribbek turned her loose.

"Fine." Dakan circled an arm around her shoulders and escorted her from the area. "So, take a walk with me."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: God Is In The TV**

Bag cradled in her arms, Persephone ambled alongside Dakan as they entered Shalta Ward's 300 block. Damaged in the fight, the dancer's bag strap hung in two pieces on either side of her folded arms. When Kev had sliced her chest, he'd also cut through the strap. Her grocery bag was gone, impounded by the lead investigation officer, along with the cans and noodle cups, as evidence. They were lucky to get her purse.

Since C-Sec had deprived Persephone of dinner, Dakan had thought it only fair he make amends. Before they'd headed to her apartment they'd stopped at a human run pastry stall and Dakan had treated her. In silence, Persephone had scarfed down a beef and vegetable filled savory bun. While she'd tucked in he'd ordered a second beef bun, a pork bun, and a selection of dessert buns to go. He carried the warm take out box under one arm.

During their trek, Dakan's thoughts turned again and again to Persephone's bag. At the end of the security vid Sam had relayed to his sig, Kella had handed something to Persephone. Clarity on the overhead cam wasn't spectacular, but that something looked like a card. A calling card? An invitation perhaps? He hadn't had a chance to go through her belongings. Hopefully, one of the investigating offers had completed a thorough inventory. If he didn't get her talking about Kella tonight, he could miss a valuable lead. This could be their last conversation.

"Thank you," Persephone whispered. Leaving the scene had done wonders for her attitude.

"Just doing my job, Persephone. Said I'd get you home."

"Neve."

Dakan glanced sidelong at her. Her attention remained on the avenue ahead.

"My name's Neve," she said.

Neve. A simple name. Undecorated. Like the turian syllable poetry his mother collected. This was better than her flowery stage name.

"I'm—"

"Dakan. Evie said. Is getting me out of a mandatory free clinic visit and buying me dinner really 'just doing your job?'"

"I've likely gone beyond the call of duty."

"Then, thank you."

"You're welcome."

Residential avenues on the Lower Wards weren't well lit. Most of the overheads were dead or close to it. Light escaping un-shuttered windows patching the housing complexes cast yellow squares at their feet. Quiet calm pervaded this block. Bursts of animated laughter or the hum of a vid feed turned too loud suggested the community hidden behind these walls.

"I'll pay you back for the food," Neve said.

"Don't worry about the credits. Slipping you from the clinic will require a return favor."

Dakan could almost see Neve's armor go up. She angled her body away from him and her face went blank.

"What sort of favor?" She asked.

Dipping a hand into his tunic, Dakan produced the illicit I-pac. "Your wound still needs cleaning and you need these antibiotics. I can administer them and show you how to take care of that cut until you've healed. It'll mean letting me in your apartment."

Tension left Neve's posture. "Alright."

Dakan fitted the I-pac under his arm with the take out. "Tell me, why were you so against the cli—"

"Miss? Miss!" From the sound of it, someone in high heels struggled to catch up with them.

Dakan and Neve turned around.

A woman trotted up the avenue, the hem of her floor length flow-dress gathered in one hand so she didn't trip. A new model campanion zipped along behind her, its recording eye open and its close-spot on.

_Shit_, Dakan thought. _A reporter's the last thing I need._

* * *

The reporter catches us. Her campanion's close-spot shines on me. The floating camera throws off a mechanical whir as its recording eye zooms in and out, focuses.

"Can I ask you," the reporter speaks through labored breaths, "a few questions?"

I say "yes" on top of Dakan's "no." The turian tugs my arm, mutters in my ear with that compelling double voice of his.

"We should go."

"Are you crazy? That's Emily Wong," I whisper back. "I'm not passing up free publicity."

I recognized Ms. Wong several seconds after she caught up with us, but I should have placed her authoritative, lyrical voice. I hear it so often on the FCC universal broadcasts and on her local show, _Citadel Space_. A glossy, black bob frames her serious face and a suggestive cut out in her flow-dress offers a sample of her booth bronze cleavage. Divesting myself of my bag—Dakan takes it—I smooth my hair and present myself to her and her campanion.

"Brilliant." Emily flashes a chemical white smile. "I'm compiling a piece on the hazards of Citadel nightlife. The incident at Chora's Den is my centerpiece, but if I can get some comments from you, they should make for some compelling last minute additions."

"Please, go ahead," I say and hope she opts for a tight focus on my face. My bandage and blood-stiff dress isn't attractive.

"Excellent," Emily says over Dakan's unconstructive grumbling. The turian leans against a residential complex's railing and messes with his omni-tool. The take out box, my purse, and the I-pac make a squat tower at his cloven feet. "Forgive me. I spoke briefly with one of the investigating officers. You're Neve Cezetti, correct? Of Shadow Matter?"

The sound of my own name makes me wince. "I'd prefer if you used my stage name for the interview."

"Which is?" A mini data pad comes from Wong's pocket. She thumb types notes onto the screen.

"Persephone."

The reporter's mouth twitches.

What the hell's wrong with "Persephone?" It's a pretty name and much better than some of the pretentious crap the asari come up with. Shia's stage name is Lala'Lu. She cribbed it from one of the ancient asari's lesser fertility deities.

"Alright, Persephone, would you tell me what happened tonight?"

The campanion zooms on me. I don't look at the recording eye as I relate the events preceding and following the attack. I also don't mention Dalessia Kella or Dakan by name. The asari agent is "a client" and he's "a C-Sec officer." When I finish, Wong goes after Dakan.

"And you're the—"

With a sharp wave of his hand, Dakan shuts the reporter down. Emily shrugs and resumes her questioning.

"Does that sort of violence happen a lot at Shadow Matter?"

Ooo. Tricky, but I'm ready for it. I watch Citadel Space all the time and I know Wong's style. She doesn't back down from hard questions and the one she's lobbed at me is mild compared with the scorchers she's leveled at Council reps and ambassadors.

"Violence is a risk wherever there's a crowd and alcohol. Give the most mild mannered salarian enough shots of ice brandy and you've got trouble. Shadow Matter's no exception. Management looks after staff, but they can't send the bouncers home with us. That's why we have C-Sec."

_All the ones who aren't in someone's back pocket_, I don't say and smile a pageant contestant's smile.

"Indeed." Wong scans her datapad. "C-Sec handled your situation admirably. Is this the first time a customer has crossed the line?"

"It's the first time anyone's stepped so far over it."

"Can you elaborate?"

I choose my next words carefully. Anything I say reflects on the club. Sarc Potz won't appreciate negative press on one of the most popular news feeds on the Citadel.

"I've dealt with rowdy customers on occasion. Once club etiquette is breached, security is quick to step in."

"Can you give an example of 'club etiquette?'" Wong's dark eyes narrow.

"Without boring you, a breach of club etiquette is any behavior which disturbs other customers or makes the staff uncomfortable. For hostesses and dancers that mostly means unauthorized touching. Customers aren't allowed to touch staff without direct permission."

Really, security doesn't crack down on the touching rule. They let the hostesses and dancers police themselves. We're good at shutting down unwanted attention on the whole. Security throws their weight around for especially obnoxious cases once those cases run low on credits.

"I see." Wong's datapad goes up and down. "Would you say sex workers on the Citadel experience more violence than the average resident?"

"I'm not a sex worker." The words are short, sharp daggers out of my mouth. The abrupt change in my tone raises Wong's brows.

I am _not_ a sex worker.

I'm not like that. Not like _her_. Not one bit.

"Shadow Matter isn't part of the Citadel's sex industry?" Wong asks, latching onto the nerve she's hit like a crocodile onto a gazelle's neck.

"No." My lips don't want to let go of the word. A torrent of verbal bile has built up behind the simple answer. Letting loose would be easy. And stupid. I literally bite down on my tongue and wait out the white hot filament of rage conducting at the fore of my skull.

"Burn Six lists Shadow Matter as the finest gentleman's club on the Citadel." Wong reads from her datapad. "'The elegance of the Presidium Lounge combined with the excitement of Flux and the raw eroticism of Omega's Afterlife.'"

Burn Six is a print and extranet publication. The mag features and reviews premier events and destinations all over the universe. Clubs live and die by the word Burn Six puts out. I know the article Wong quotes because I'm a Burn Six extranet subscriber and because Sarc didn't shut up about it for a whole week. About how Zedin Yahmed, the star human columnist, pigeonholed the club, turned it into a cliché with two little words.

"Shadow Matter isn't a gentleman's club," I say now that my anger is no longer an arch-backed bob cat. "And it's not linked to the sex industry. Check the records. We get no benefits or protections due registered pink clubs."

"I know you're not registered, but—"

"But nothing." Wong's done steering me. "Shadow Matter isn't a sex club. They don't employ strippers or prostitutes." I make damn sure I have her eye when I say that. "We are a lounge and cabaret offering sensual entertainment to all genders, all orientations, races, and species. We don't put limits on our clientele or our staff. We won't start with you."

"I see." Wong inclines her head towards me. "Thank you for your time, Persephone."

The campanion shuts down. Its close-spot clicks off and sudden darkness shocks my eyes. Wherever I look, green spots dance in the shadows. Wong makes a few more notes on her datapad, then she gets me to sign a digital release. This allows her to use my unaltered likeness and voice (not my name) on _Citadel Space_. We shake hands and she thanks me again for the interview and wishes me a speedy recovery.

Emily Wong exeunt, stage right.

Dakan has watched our entire volley from his safe spot by the front steps of the residential complex neighboring mine. The turian's head cocks when I notice him. He's already collected the take out and my antibiotics. He hands me my bag.

What's he thinking?

Does he consider my grandstanding of Shadow Matter and its staff? Does he agree? Or does he think I peddle pink?

_Sex worker._

My minds eye shows me a small, New York apartment. A girl in a colorful tunic and neon tights sits on a black leather couch swinging stick legs that don't come anywhere near the floor. A woman in a low backed gown glides up the hall to the front door. One hand grips a sparkling, beaded clutch. The other hand fixes an earring in place, skims the back of her twist-styled hair. The front door opens. Shuts. The girl on the couch wonders if the black sky will be blue before her mother returns. She lays on the couch and watches an impossibly beautiful woman on the feed screen. She sings and she dances. The crowd around her cheers. Everyone loves her. The girl turns up the volume and mouths words she knows by heart. Her feet wiggle to the beat.

I blink. There's no apartment. Just the avenue and the turian. Dakan waits for me. He doesn't know which building is mine.

_Sex worker._

No. That's not me. Not me at all.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Fame, Doin' It For The Fame**

I stomp up the stairs to my floor. For once, the blast graffiti glowing in the stairwell doesn't bother me. Smashing my thumb to the cracked pad next to my door, I wait for the snail slow scanner to verify my identity. A flat ding registers my person and my door snicks open. I miss manual doors. I want to kick one open, slam it shut.

"Can you believe that shit?" I hurl my busted bag onto my couch which, after I roll it out, becomes my bed.

My apartment is one big room. To the right of the front door is my one bookshelf and to the left of that is my couch/bed. A fridge and stove and sink with overhead cabinets lines the wall opposite the couch/bed. Separating the kitchen and living spaces is a small island for eating and piling knick-knacks and books. My bathroom hides behind a vertical striped curtain hanging from the room's back corner. Next to that, backed up against the far left wall, is my desk and a free standing rack of clothes. There's no closet space in here.

When I head for the fridge, I trip over a stack of magazines. I catch myself on the edge of the island and curse. Orphaned magazine pages carpet the already carpeted floor. That and heaps of unwashed laundry. Oh, and my disemboweled makeup case. And several cracked romosim cases. The naked game disks are stacked on my desk next to my p-interface terminal.

Dakan lingers in the entrance to my apartment. "What shit?" He asks and surveys the interior space. A hesitant foot crosses the threshold. He picks a careful path over the detritus crusting the well tracked carpet.

Yanking open the fridge door, I haul out a half empty bottle of white wine. "The sex worker shit." I slam the bottle on the island and hunt for a clean glass.

A dark shape intrudes on my periphery. Dakan has made it to this side of the room. He finds an unoccupied space on my counter and sets down the take out and I-pac. Talons flutter over the stacks of dirty dishes, mugs, and piles of papers. He takes a step backwards and rubs his hands together, clasps them behind his back.

"Emily Wong's a reporter," he says. "She's paid to make events more interesting than they are. Intense emotional reactions are entertaining. Reporters elicit them when they can." He eyes the dish soap and the dingy rag on the sink and his hands work behind his back.

The glass I've ferreted out clacks on the island. Uncorking the wine with my teeth, I spit out the stopper which bounces off the faux granite surface and rolls onto the floor.

"Do you think I'm a sex worker?" I ask. The turian's opinion of me shouldn't matter. I shouldn't care, but I have to know.

"Ah…" Dakan's focus shifts from me to the I-pac. There's a rustling sound when he goes for the antibiotics. A magazine glossy sticks to his foot like a piece of toilet paper. He shakes his leg until the page comes free. "You, ah." he scoops the I-pac off the counter and cautiously approaches the island where I pour myself a drink. "You dance in skimpy outfits for pay." The I-pac turns over and over in his hands.

I snatch up my glass and pale gold wine overtops the rim, sloshes over my hand. "I don't strip or fuck for credits. I never will." I gulp down half of what's in my glass in one go. Chilled wine slides down my throat, warms my belly and cheeks. I reach for the bottle again, but Dakan nudges it out of range.

"There are other jobs on the Citadel. If this work bothers you, why do it?" He moves the bottle from the island to one of the four tall seats surrounding it.

I perch on one of the chairs and swirl what's left of the wine around in my glass. "It's a means to an end. When I first moved here I worked as a kiosk girl on Kithoi Ward. The pay was terrible. Worse than I make now. I couldn't afford an apartment. I lived out of third rate hotels for a while. I hit the clubs everyday, made sure I got seen. I got a few gigs that way which got me some extra credits and contacts in the entertainment industry." I sip at the sweet wine. "Eventually, I ran into Shia at an after party and she set me up at Shadow Matter, but club work isn't the end of the line for me."

Placing the I-pac on the edge of the island, Dakan shuffles some loose glossies together into a neat sheaf. In his arms he gathers bracelets, necklaces, pots of eye shadow, and empty noodle cups.

At my puzzled look, he says, "I need a clear space."

A swipe of my arm sweeps all the odds and ends off the raised table. There. Clean.

Dakan's mandibles completely shutter the sides of his face. "Don't you think maybe a little…organization?"

I stretch over the island and slap my belongings out of his arms. They rain down at his feet and thunk on the carpet. Dakan's jaws grind against each other as he surveys the new mess. His emptied hands clutch the air.

"This doesn't," he gestures at my apartment, "overwhelm you?"

I stare at him, drink my drink. "Nope."

Dakan's head slashes left and right. He paces one way, then the other, rearing back when he finds clutter on all sides. "How do you find anything in here?"

"It's a complex system of my own design," I answer. "What do you seek?" The wine has gone to my head.

"Do you have an aid kit?"

I point over his shoulder. "Bathroom."

Dakan whirls about and heads to the hanging partition curtaining my bathroom from the living area. Hands shield his face from the chaos at his feet. The curtain zings back and Dakan strides headlong into the underwear I've hung to dry. He swats at the garments slapping his face and disentangles himself from the line. I'm tipsy enough to find this hilarious instead of embarrassing and mash my lips together so he doesn't hear my laughter. He finds the aid kit in my medicine cabinet and brings it back to the island. A pair of my panties drapes over his shoulder. While he sorts through the kit's contents, I nonchalantly remove the offending item. If Dakan notices, he makes no comment.

From the kit, he removes a sterilization cloth, a wad of fresh bandage, and a roll of tape. Popping open the I-pac, he extracts and scoots a double blister pack of gigantic pills my way, then inspects the pre-filled syringe.

"Swallow those," he says, meaning the pills.

A great deal of straining and chest pounding and wine swallowing later and the pills are gone. A painful bulge sticks in my chest. I give my sternum a two fingered massage.

"You alright?" Dakan asks.

My head bobs in the affirmative.

"Then pull up your sleeve." He brandishes the syringe.

Shrinking in my seat, I say, "I don't like needles. I should be fine with the pills."

"It's this or the clinic." Dakan looks me dead in the eye. "I'm not above carrying you."

"Carrying me would be a chore if I punched and kicked."

"Not if you were tied up."

Somehow, I don't think he's joking. I wrench my cap sleeve over my shoulder. Dakan grips the meat of my bicep in one hand—his fingers are dry and warm like sun-baked clay—and positions the syringe with the other. I squint and my whole body tenses. A taloned thumb strokes the side of my arm. Its sharp tip lightly scrapes my skin. I shiver and relax.

"On three, ok?"

I give Dakan the go ahead and he starts counting.

"One—"

He sticks me. The needle punctures my skin. I make a woozy noise and black spots stipple my vision. Dakan presses down on the plunger, drops the antibiotic payload, and removes the heinous instrument. And to think I trusted this villain for the barest moment. I try wrestling away my arm, but the turian's death grip doesn't ease up.

"Stop squirming." He lobs the syringe into the waste bin next to the sink. His free hand locates the emptied I-pac. Upending it, he shakes the plastic bag. A small square flutters onto the table top. He hands it to me. "Open that."

It's a self medicated bandage. I tear it open and Dakan whisks it away, plasters it over the crimson bead welling at the puncture site.

"There," he says. "Half done."

I sneer and turn my head, but he angles me back toward him. His hands go for my chest. I bat them away and he grunts.

"I'm going to clean your cut and show you how to reapply the bandage, so you can do it yourself. C-Sec doesn't usually make house calls unless someone sends in a complaint."

My arms go slack at my sides. I let him work on me. When the old bandage peels away, I hiss. The cloth sticks to the fresh wound, won't come up without some cajoling. The backs of my eyes prickle. Tears are an involuntary reaction to pain. I grit my teeth. I won't let them fall. My blubbering in the sub-avenue is quite enough for one night.

"Tell me about your end of the line."

My eyes pop open. I wasn't aware I'd closed them. "What?"

Dakan works methodically. The soiled bandage lies upright and away from us on the island. He opens and unfolds the sterile cloth. "You said working the club wasn't the end of the line for you. What is?" His mandibles wing out as he works. The cloth leaves wet, cold patches on my chest. The chemicals saturating it sting my raw skin. Sweet astringent wafts under my nose.

Why not just admit what drives me?

"Fame." I breathe out the word like something holy. "Financial security. At the end of the line I'll be in a position where no one can ever take anything from me ever again."

Dakan pauses his swabbing. "Dancing at Shadow Matter's going to get you all that?"

I raise one brow at him. "Already on my way."

He bends his head, scrutinizes my wound. His fringe points at the ceiling. "How's that?"

"I've got an audition tomorrow."

Again, he pauses. "With whom?"

"Dalessia Kella."

Righting himself, Dakan discards the sterile cloth on top of the old bandage. "I'm sure congratulations are in order, but I don't know who that is."

Of course he doesn't. I roll my eyes. "She's a top agent. She liked my dancing."

"Yes. It's beautiful."

I tilt my head. The corner of my mouth quirks upwards. "Is it?"

Dakan's mandibles draw in. He busies his hands with the tightly wound plug of fresh bandages. "You know how well you dance. It's different than any of the other women's routines."

"You come to the club often?" He has to if he knows all the routines.

"Nightly the last week and a half." Dakan measures a length of bandage against the slash across my chest.

I knew I recognized his colony markings.

"Ballet," I say as he tapes the new bandage in place.

The turian lifts his head, stares.

"None of the other women are trained ballerinas. I am, so my dancing stands out."

"What's ballet?"

"A very old human dance style. Not many people perform it anymore. Here." I slide out of my chair and out from under his hands. He makes a quiet, exasperated sound. He wasn't finished taping the bandage in place. One end of the padding flaps away from my chest as I hopscotch onto cleared patches of my apartment's floor.

Straining for the top shelf of my bookcase, I pluck a holo-album from the dusty surface. I bring the egg shaped device over to the island and set it between us. Before I can activate it, Dakan captures me and finishes with my treatment. He evaluates his work and nods his satisfaction.

There's a catch on the holo-album's side. I flip it and the top of the egg shaped unit dilates. An image projects from the opened aperture. Little girl me stands in first position in a pink leotard, tights, and leather flats. Wisps of hair come away from my bun and my smile is large and gapped where adult teeth haven't grown in. Using the miniscule controls on the album, I cycle through the stored images until I come to a short vid clip.

I'm older here and I'm on stage. This is footage from a recital when I was eighteen. My pointe work is exceptional. I could have joined a prestigious company. Could have. My lips twist and I shun the vid. Dakan watches it loop over and over.

"The costume is funny, but I like this dance. It's very precise. Controlled."

"Yeah." I mean to shut down the album. My fingertips skim the controls and I navigate to the next file.

A man and woman sandwich a young girl between them. The trio is all smiles, cheeks flushed with cold. A wintry park stretches in the background. Seeing them is a punch to the gut.

"Your parents?" Dakan asks.

"Yes." I flick the holo-album's catch, swipe it from the island, and return it to the tippy-top of my bookcase. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Are they on the Citadel too?"

"No. They're on Earth."

Sort of.

Dakan either reads my body language or loses interest because he stands, says, "Well, why don't I go over injury upkeep with you once more?"

I assent because I didn't pay attention when he did everything the first time. He stands me in front of him in my cramped bathroom—he avoids my laundry line this time—and mimes the proper swabbing technique and explains how I should fit future bandages. We make a strange pair in the mirror. When he finishes his demonstration, his eyes meet mine in the glass.

"Got it?" He asks.

I got it. I tell him so.

"You're sure?" His hands rest on my shoulders. "I can go over it again."

"It's pretty straightforward."

"Yes, but," he glances at my living area. "You're not very…clean."

Oh, enough, Mr. Uptight Turian.

"I can take it from here." I shoo him out of my bathroom and across my living space. When he stands at my front door there's a tugging in my chest I blame on my newly cleaned cut.

"Thanks again," I say. "I'd say I owe you, but that thug probably would have shot you if I hadn't knocked him out."

"Undoubtedly." Dakan recedes onto the darkened balcony area outside.

I suddenly have no control of my mouth. "Will I see you at Shadow Matter tomorrow or are your regular days over?"

The turian doesn't respond for a beat or two, then shrugs one shoulder. "It's the only place on the ward I can get a decent drink. I also like the entertainment."

I stare at the floor and hide my stupid grin. "Right." My fingers flicker in a goodbye wave and I shut the door.

Just my luck. As soon as I break out of hostessing, I find a regular client I wouldn't mind servicing. Maybe there'll be time between routines and privates and floor sets? Making a fist, I gently pound my forehead. What the hell am I thinking? There's no time to explore any interspecies infatuation I've developed in the last few hours. Love—lust—is a distraction at best and an anchor at worst. I can't afford either with my career plan.

A yawn stretches my mouth wide. Time to put the take out away and go to sleep. Tomorrow's a big day. This meeting with Dalessia Kella could change my life. Rounding away from the door, I take a step towards the kitchen area. My foot lands on a loose glossy. The magazine page slides. My footing goes with it. My arms pinwheel as I lose my balance and belly flop onto the carpet.

Maybe I should clean up a little.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: Might As Well Face It, You're Addicted To Love**

The blast graffiti on Neve's building was the Blue Sun's doing.

_How can Shalta Ward's C-Sec battalion let this crap slide?_ Dakan thought.

Sure, the digital tags were a pain to decrypt, but he'd done his fair share of wall scrubbing as a rookie officer on Zakera Ward. Targeted vandalism seemed like a minor issue, but it was a symptom of a much larger problem: organized crime on the Lower Wards was out of control. Every building, every block emblazoned with a gang or merc's calling card was a small piece of the wards lost to C-Sec. Residents paid the price for their lapse in duty. These people couldn't even use the free clinics in peace. He hadn't had the chance to ask Neve why visiting a clinic was such a problem, but he'd had time to think while she'd spoken with Emily Wong. The answer wasn't difficult to determine, especially when he noticed the bright tags marking the residential complexes. Criminals preyed on lower income residents and the free clinics were an excellent resource to exploit. No wonder Neve avoided the Council funded treatment centers.

Dakan balled his fists. It was passed three AM, but he wasn't tired. Kella, Razorback, the shootout, Neve, all of it had him keyed up. Holing himself in his apartment on Zakera Ward would be a waste of valuable energy. He went back to the office instead.

Zakera Ward's C-Sec hub office near Presidium Junction always had officers on duty no matter the hour. Steel desks with imitation wood surfaces outlined the rectangular perimeter of the front office. Harsh, blue-white overheads gave everyone, human and turian, a sickly cast. Heads bent over luminous p-interfaces or actual paper forms for those higher ups that required hard copies of all documentation sent to them. Groans accompanied the furious scribbling and typing. Most considered paperwork bureaucratic quicksand, pointless and time consuming. It was also part of the job and it wasn't going away. Any officer with his or her name on a desk either managed the deluge of documentation or drowned in it. Dakan had an efficient system for paperwork, but then, he had an efficient system for everything.

A group of hardsuited officers on their way out for patrol moved around Dakan as he strode to the back of the main office.

"Detective," the lone salarian among the turians said to him in greeting.

Dakan dipped his head in return. The officer's name was Sirrus, a rookie fresh from the academy. Salarians were rare in C-Sec. Two called Zakera Ward's hub office home: Sirrus and Yamen, a three year Networks vet. The tech department was on the second floor. Usually, Dakan popped up there and BSed with Sam before he dove into the dreary paperwork slog. Not this morning.

The automatic door in the back left corner of the main room led to the secondary offices. At the rear of the first suite of workstations, Dakan situated himself at his desk. While he didn't have the luxury of his own office, like senior detective Chellik, cardboard quality partitions as his front and back allowed him a semblance of privacy. Not a crumb nor speck of dust littered his work area. Paperwork, bundled by case, created a neat battlement along the back edge of his desk. He powered on his terminal and waited out the p-interface's warm up process.

A flood of new messages cascaded into Dakan's work sig inbox. Perusing them, he deleted the redundant and ear marked the priority items for assessment during his official shift. He minimized C-Sec's intranet pane and brought up the extranet. Sam had sent his Shadow Matter footage to Dakan's personal sig. The vid sat at the top of his private correspondence. A tap of his talon opened the file.

How was Kella unmoved by Neve's dance? The asari lounged on the satellite room's couch and hardly paid the human any mind until the dancer crawled atop her. Had Dakan been in the same position, he doubted his attention would have strayed to his omni-tool. Zooming in on Neve, he locked the tracking in his vid-play program so the camera followed the dancer. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

Fame. That's what Neve strove for.

A self indulgent goal. A goal at utter odds with his turian sensibilities. This human should have repulsed him. Her self absorption, clamoring for attention, knee-jerk reactivity, and sloppiness irritated him. Yet, part of him, a microscopic part he did not indulge, reveled in her freedom. The ties of community, family, and duty didn't bind her. She acted on whim and impulse, serving no one save herself. Imagining a life like that excited and frightened him. A life like that was alien to Dakan and, therefore, intriguing. What did Kella want with this woman? Was it really just her dancing and her looks?

A hand slammed on Dakan's desk and the turian nearly hit the ceiling.

"That doesn't look like case work." A wiry human male hovered over Dakan's shoulder. Shaggy hair came over his eyes and stubble peppered his jaw and neck.

"Don't sneak up on me like that, Sam," Dakan said and eased back into his chair. Glancing over his shoulder, he eyed the human's unkempt blues and poor grooming. "I'm surprised no one's reported you for breaking regs."

Sam mussed his own hair. "Captain stays off my case as long as I get him the files he wants. Plus, he never sees me. No one visits the Network cave but you." He sidled out from behind Dakan and sat on the edge of the turian's desk. "That the vid I sent you?"

"It is."

"And everything I read from tonight's Shalta incident is on the up and up?"

"Should be."

Doubling over, Sam sighed, scrubbed his face with his hands. "Then I need you to listen to me a tick." The human's hand came to rest on Dakan's shoulder. "Do not get involved with strippers."

Dakan scoffed and brushed off Sam's hand.

"I'm serious," Sam said. "You do not want to fall for this woman."

"I'm not falling for anyone." Dakan poked around in his desk drawers for his datapad.

"Then why are you zoomed in seventy-five percent on her waist?"

"The settings on this play program are sensitive." A metallic boom sounded when Dakan slammed his middle desk drawer. "I believe someone's stolen my datapad."

Sam slid open the large lower drawer on the desk's left side. "You mean this datapad?" He tossed the portable screen in front of Dakan. "The one you always keep in this drawer? The one you never let anyone borrow without a signed requisition form?"

"Thank you," Dakan said, not meaning it at all. He had his own requisition forms that needed sending.

Sam chuckled. "Man, you've got it bad and you've just met her."

"I haven't _got_ anything. Neve is a direct link to Kella. She's doing reconnaissance work for me and I don't have to endanger her to do it. Win, win."

"Neve, huh? First name basis?"

On his datapad, Dakan brought up a blank equipment form, ignored Sam. The human carried on his one-sided conversation regardless.

"You seem to forget I'm the one who's sent the keta-bite of," he lowered his voice, "interspecies porn to your p-sig. Half of that's turian on human or turian on asari if I'm remembering right. And then that drell-hanar weirdness which not even I get."

Dakan's shoulders hunched. So, he liked species besides his own. So, what? Didn't mean anything. He didn't discuss his…preferences with many and certainly not other turians. They wouldn't understand. Sam found out because Dakan ran into him so often at Beasley's Imports, a salarian owned game, file, and book store. They'd become friends after Beasley's flubbed their pre-orders for _Shaxni Strike!_, an extranet link game structured around the First Contact War. Only one copy of the game came in on release day even though they'd both placed orders. One of the sales associates had submitted the order form wrong. Sam had relinquished his copy to Dakan and Dakan had looked the human up in game, not knowing Sam worked in the hub office until a month later. Networks techs rarely left their upstairs department.

"There are other people in here, you know," Dakan muttered.

"No one heard. You gonna take my advice? Human men have been making this mistake since we could paint on cave walls." Sam scratched his chin. "Probably before."

"Look, I appreciate it, but I'm turian not human. I know better than to get personally involved with a case pawn."

"Alright, buddy." Sam clapped Dakan's back. "Just looking out for you." His blue eyes moved to the p-terminal. The security vid still played. "She is pretty."

"Shadow Matter hired her for a reason."

"I meant Kella."

Dakan hunkered over the datapad and started pecking out information.

"You really think she's a smuggler?"

Setting both hands on his desk, Dakan pivoted so he faced his friend. "We're discussing Kella, correct?"

"Who else?"

"Then yes, I do. Illium transplants can't comprehend what's legal on Illium isn't legal on the Citadel."

"And the murders?"

"Why else would she hire a drell for a twenty-four-seven PA?"

_Personal assistant, my ass_, Dakan thought. He couldn't prove Vlair Upshad was anything other than a high priced aide, but his gut told him otherwise. The drell attached to Kella's retinue was a dangerous mystery. No one in Networks had unearthed any files on Upshad that weren't sealed by the Illuminated Primacy. Among the hanar elite, Dakan possessed no contacts. Upshad remained a question mark.

"Awfully specist of you, Dakan," Sam said. "Not all drell are assassins."

"My friend, you've offered me misguided, though well-intentioned, advice culled from a millennia of human evolution. Would you accept a piece of turian wisdom in return?"

Sam shrugged, nodded.

"Never trust a drell."

The reptilian species decimated their own planet with reckless expansion. They would have died out entirely had the hanar not stepped in and evacuated as much of the population as the jellies could. In return for their rescue and permanent residence on the hanar homeworld, Kahje, the drell maintained the Compact. When the hanar called upon the drell to serve, the drell complied, fulfilling tasks the hanar could not. These tasks fell along two common lines: negotiation and assassination. The drell were the weapons of the Illuminated Primacy and one of those weapons was shackled to Kella's side. Made no sense unless the asari had more to conceal than a little drug running.

"Whatever, man," Sam said and eased off the desk. "You up for Tivictus and O'Callahan's tonight? Time to pay up for all those tech favors I've been spotting you." He patted his stomach.

"I can do lunch. Busy tonight."

"Yeah, yeah, Kella, Shadow Matter, that stripper you're sniffing around, I know. See you at twelve."

Sam's teasing didn't bother Dakan. The turian had lost himself in his digital paperwork and paid no attention as the human took his leave. Sam was a good friend, but he was completely off base.

Once Dakan completed and submitted his surveillance equipment forms, he terminated the security vid loop and pulled up his file on Kella and the NOVA case. He created a new sub-file within it titled "Neve Cezetti." Into this new sub-file he dropped a copy of the captured satellite room vid. Then he began building a background document on Neve. He already had a great deal of information: her name, alias, address, place of business, job title, even a little of her personal history before she became a resident on the Citadel. By this time tomorrow he'd have more.

Creating the official file put him at ease. His interest in the woman was professional, not personal. With her unwitting help, he would crack the Citadel branch of NOVA, a smuggler's and assassin's ring looping through every major galactic metropolis. Senior detective Chellik assigned Kella's case to Dakan and Chellik's orders came directly from Executor Pallin. Breaking NOVA was the Executor's pet project. Working one step removed from the head of C-Sec was a great honor and an enormous opportunity for advancement. Dakan wouldn't jeopardize all that over one human. Besides, he wasn't falling for anyone. Keeping an eye on Neve went hand in hand with his investigation of the asari.

It was a duty he wouldn't shirk.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Now Did I Take You By Surprise With My Hungry Eyes?**

Crying wakes me.

I roll over and squint at my clock. Six AM. The alarm won't go off for another two hours, but when Roger starts wailing this early, Allegra generally can't quiet him for a good fifty minutes. I stuff my head under my pillows. It's no use. I'm wide awake. May as well get up.

Throwing my legs over the side of my rollout bed, I wince. The topical painkillers Evie administered have worn off. Gingerly, I test the area surrounding my bandage and grimace. It's like I have a huge cat scratch on top of a carpet burn on skin already sunburned and bruised. I moan. All I can do is pop a couple over-the-counter pain relievers and hope for the best. I shove off my creaky pallet.

Before turning in last night—this morning—I did a little cleaning. On my way to the shower I don't slip on any magazine pages. I do have to hop over the massive heap of laundry that will, eventually, go to the 300 block's cred-op-wash-o-rama, but, hey, all the _little_ piles of dirty clothes are gone. That's an accomplishment. I mentally high-five myself as the steamy shower spray warms my stiff muscles. I face away from the showerhead, so the jetting water doesn't pelt my chest.

When I'm done washing, the full body dryer descends and blasts the moisture from my skin and hair. Soaked through with water, my bandage peels away, revealing the ugly slash above my breasts. In front of my mirrored medicine cabinet, I perform Dakan's step by step cleaning and covering process. Ha! I remember it all, so there, Mr. Critical Turian.

I throw back my bathroom curtain and pad into the living area. Rodger's quiet. That means he either has a bottle or a boob in his mouth. My brow furrows as I sit my bare butt in my desk chair.

Allegra, my neighbor, has it tough. Leaving her apartment for long stretches isn't an option while Rodger Sr.'s deployed. It's just her and Little Roger all day everyday unless she gets a sitter. I watch Little Rodger now and then when my shifts allow.

Once my p-terminal's interface is up and running, I check my sig. Mixed in with all the kiosk coupons and sales notices is a message from Sarc Potz. The subject line reads "Promotion and Presidium." With a swipe of my index finger, I maximize the message pane on my interface and eat up my boss's communiqué.

Cezetti Earth-Clan:

Many congratulations on your promotion. I have officially upgraded your status to Shadow Dancer. Come in before your shift begins and Flik will synch your official primp station's adaptive interface with your assigned p-band. Yashia Thessia-Clan will go over the week's stage and floor schedule. In accordance with your new position, I have transferred a bonus to your account. Don't let it burn a hole through your pocket.

At Dalessia Kella's request, I have granted you temporary admission to the Presidium. She's expecting you today. I'm sure there is no need to remind you that Shadow Dancers are the face of Shadow Matter. Do not forget that when you meet with Kella and do not forget that you are my guest on the Presidium. Do not make me regret my generosity.

Sarc Potz

Owner – Shadow Matter

My feet tap-tap-tap the floor. I pump my fists in the air. My head bobs side to side as I mentally sing-song: I've got a bo-nus! I've got a bo-nus!

Fingers skating over my p-interface, I bring up my account and salivate over my credit balance which has quadrupled over night. Then I do some quick tabulations, draw some invisible numbers in the air with a fingertip. After rent, extranet and skycar taxes, I don't have so much. I haven't added in the costs of food or laundry either. Or my monthly transfer to Earth. I slump in my chair. In the end, it's not much, but I have some luxury creds this month and I'll get paid more now that I'm a dancer. A new outfit and a few nights out is in the cards.

I shut down my p-terminal and pull on a T-shirt and some underwear. Maybe I can get a new bag with what's left of my bonus. On hands and knees, I drag my mangled purse out from under my extended couch/bed. There's no time for a prolonged shopping trip before hitting the Presidium. Fiddling with the severed strap, I curl my upper lip. I'll make it work.

When I exit my apartment I find Allegra outside on a smoke break. A shoe wedged between her apartment's automatic door and the doorframe prevents the entrance from sealing. She'll hear Little Rodger if he cries. The petite black woman leans against the balcony. An oversized white undershirt and threadbare boxers drape her stout and buxom frame. Dark hair, kept in check by a magenta headband, frizzes out from her scalp. Fragrant mango smoke curls from the end of her leaf joint.

Everyone smokes flavored leaf. It's not illegal. A couple puffs and you feel nice and dreamy. Puffing up doesn't leave you hung over like alcohol and you don't have to pee every three seconds when you want to go out of your mind.

Allegra doesn't turn her head when I come over, but she offers me the joint. One puff won't hurt, so I take it and savor the sweet smoke, let it roll around my mouth before I suck it down and expel it through my nostrils like a dragon.

"Rough night?" I ask and pass back the joint. My purse slips onto my bicep. Hooking it back onto my shoulder, I tug a couple of times on the bag. I sewed the strap back together and, so far, my thick rows of haphazard stitches hold. The patch job isn't pretty, but it does its job.

Allegra laughs, her voice rich and throaty. "Little R is done giving me good nights, I think."

"When's Big Roger due back?"

Scrunching up her face, Allegra says, "The _Overtaker_ docked last night."

Big Roger, Allegra's husband, works on the _Overtaker_ as an assistant engineer. The Alliance cruiser is always deployed. The brief periods Big Roger comes ashore are usually happy times for Allegra.

"Duties keeping him aboard?" I ask and Allegra shakes her head.

"The last time he came ashore, he got in a scrape in the Lower Markets. One of his friends roughed up a turian that ripped him off. Rodger tried breaking it up, but C-Sec didn't see it that way. The turian didn't press charges against Ro. He didn't speak up for him either. The arrest went on his record and now it's haunting him. C-Sec's blocking his shore leave." Allegra stubs out her joint on the railing and crushes the butt in her clenched fist. "So, I don't get to see my husband again because he tried to do right by some high-handed, sketchy turian?"

A dependable turian face emblazoned with amber colony markings pops into my head.

"I've got a regular at Shadow Matter who just so happens to be a C-Sec officer. He might be able to help."

Eagerness brightens Allegra's expression, then she frowns, shakes her head. "I dunno, Neve. C-Sec's like one big turian frat house. When a crime's human on turian they don't see gray areas."

I shrug. "Asking can't hurt. I'll find him before my shift."

Allegra scrunches a hand through her hair. "Thanks, Neve. Means a lot."

I wave off her gratitude because I don't want to get teary eyed before my meeting. When I cry, my face blotches and I turn into a snot monster. We say our goodbyes and I set off for the nearest transit station.

As I descend our complex's stairs, I nurse my sore chest with a light, two-fingered touch. I downed a few painkillers, but the plasilk, hardsuit inspired outfit I wear chafes against my bandage. It occurs to me that I have no idea where Dakan's stationed. If he's always at Shadow Matter then his office is likely on Zakera Ward. That narrows my search to, oh, sixty outposts and three hubs. Allegra's right, a turian C-Sec officer will be a tough convert to champion Roger's case, but I have every confidence in my negotiation skills. Testing them on Dakan will be a pleasure.

* * *

My face graces every hanging screen in the Presidium's transit station. Disembarking from my skycar, I duck my head and shield the side of my face with one hand. A teaser for tonight's _Citadel Space_ feed plays between ANN segments. No one recognizes me, but my cheeks heat up anyhow. Hearing my voice chirping all over the Citadel is bizarre.

_Better get used to it if fame's your plan_, I think as I slip through the transit station's pedestrian traffic which, compared to the ward stations, is very, very light. I can move around here without elbowing passed anyone.

There aren't many humans Presidium level. On my way to the security checkpoint I count twelve asari, six turians, and one hanar. A silent turian operates the all-over scanner at the checkpoint. The machine verifies I'm not carrying any weapons or contraband. Scanners aren't foolproof. They can be hacked. I don't have the creds or tech contacts for those sorts of black market, designer programs. The turian waves me onward and I emerge from the transit station and step into paradise.

Well, I step into Presidium Commons, but the bustling, open air mall and apartment park looks like paradise to me. A carpet of green blankets the lower level. The sharp scent of cut grass carries all the way to the third tier where I stand and gape. Overhead, there's a simulated blue sky touched with puffs of cotton-white clouds. A sparkling lake mirrors the constructed atmosphere. Cherry trees gate the banks of the lake. Pink blossom bouquets explode all over the pale barked branches. I have access to the Presidium for one day. When my meeting with Dalessia is over, I'll go down to that sprawling nature park and curl my bare toes in the grass and dip my fingers in the lake. Who knows if I'll ever have another opportunity? Reluctantly, I turn my back on the scenic view and wander the maze that is Presidium Commons.

While there's a welter of activity on the Commons, the mood is peaceful. Asari and salarians perch on benches overlooking streams which wind off the lake. A group of turian intellectuals in vibrant striped tunics and trousers sit at an outdoor café and debate the merits and outrageous flaws on the new Vrateski Sisters vid. One of them pounds a three fingered hand on their table and their drinks jump.

"You do realize the vid's poor quality was intentional, don't you? The director's referencing an old human cultural staple called a 'grindhouse double feature.'"

Not far away, a pair of volus argue politics. The susurrations of their pressure suits fog the particulars of their conversation with white noise. The squat couple stands near a kinetic ad column. A teal skinned asari beams on the cylindrical pillar and speaks in seductive, hushed tones of the Presidium Lounge. She sips from a martini glass filled with blush colored liquor and her expression turns orgasmic. The pillar shifts to a placeholder animation when the lounge's ad ends.

I need a transit terminal.

Cabs hum in the skyways far above the nature park. You can find official transit stations in high traffic hubs on the Presidium, but there are free standing transit terminals all over. Skycars will swoop down and pick you up wherever you can find one.

Band Cluster Agencies is on tier six which, I assume, refers to the levels of apartments and commercial space lining the scythe shaped walls. I don't know where the suite's situated. As long as I have an address, a skycar can get me there.

I spot a free terminal near a souvenir kiosk manned by a bored looking asari. Colorful scarves hang behind the counter like diaphanous banners. My finger traces the clumsy stitching I've worked on my purse strap. Maybe the scarves aren't too expensive? It is a souvenir kiosk, after all. When I approach the counter, the asari perks up.

"Welcome to Presidium Premier Keepsakes. My name is Lasai. How may I help you?" Lasai's melodious voice is a hallmark of asari customer service. She's a brilliant shade of cobalt. Colorless gloss varnishes her plump lips. They glisten when she speaks.

Gesturing at the rack behind Lasai, I inquire about the turquoise scarf hanging at the end of the row.

"These were imported from Noveria." Lasai laughs as she fetches the scarf I admire. "Our buyer likes to joke they're rachni silk, but really I think they're an ultra-fine synthetic blend."

While she unfastens the scarf, I peruse the other items on display. Next to the check out terminal there's a velvet upholstered dais. Small charms rest atop the cushioned platform. All the Citadel races are represented. I poke the little turian whose hand sticks out in a peace sign.

"Those are cute, aren't they?" Lasai drapes the scarf I like over her crooked left arm. A price tag dangles off its hem. My lips press together. It's a nice scarf, but not _that_ nice. The cute turian charm wouldn't hit my recently inflated account as hard. Sweat builds inside my plasilk suit. I can't admit to this ethereal asari that her kiosk prices are beyond me, that I'm only a tourist in her pretty world. Lasai dismisses the awkward silence that plays out between us.

"I know the Presidium's a big place, but I've worked this kiosk for five years and I've never seen you in the Commons before. Are you a new resident?"

I release the breath I hold. "I am. Relocated today as a matter of fact." I can use relocation costs as an excuse.

Lasai claps. "Oh, wonderful!" She swishes over to the check out terminal. "Since you're new to the Presidium, I can give you our preferred visitor's discount." She rearranges some icons on her interface and the cost of the scarf with the discount applied appears in the "total" field. I perform internal pirouettes. With the discount I can swing the faux rachni scarf with no problem. I pinch the little turian between my thumb and index finger.

"I'll take this too."

I complete my purchase and scurry away from the kiosk before Lasai has the presence of mind to check my resident ID.

In the back of the skycar I hail, I dress up my purse, wrapping the scarf around my awful patch job. The turian charm I attach to my zipper. When the cab drops me off at the transit ramp closest to Band Cluster Agencies, all my scuffs and tears are concealed. I smooth my hair and seek out suite twelve. I don't walk far.

A brass placard marks Dalessia Kella's door. "Band Cluster Agencies" stamps the polished metal sign. Windows—narrow strips of frosted glass—bookend the sides of the entrance. I try peering through the fogged panes. All I make out are shadowy, indistinct shapes. A trill of faint laughter comes through the door. I pull back.

Under the brass plate, there's a vid screen and a call button. I press it and a quiet tone chimes within. Footsteps approach. I straighten my posture, wriggle my shoulders, and take a deep breath. I'm ready for this. I'm ready to face Dalessia Kella.

The door slides back.

My own face stares back at me, wary expression caught in eyes black as volcanic glass. The alien in the doorway isn't Dalessia Kella. He's not even asari. I tilt my head. I think…I think he's drell. A confused sound comes from my open mouth.

Membranous secondary lids extend and retract over the drell's inky eyes. Simulated sunlight casts an iridescent sheen on his green skin and scales. Full, seductive lips curve in a sly smile. My mouth snaps shut. This is the first time I've encountered a drell and I'm acting like some colony-fresh, alien isolated rube. I clear my throat and assume an authoritative tone.

"I have an appointment with Dalessia Kella."

Angling his lithe body, the drell creates a passage between himself and the doorframe. Movement shifts the black outerskin suit covering his broad chest. "Of course," he says and gestures for me to step inside.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Take Another Look Into His Eyes And You Will Only Find A Reptile**

The room I enter is a foyer. When I cross the threshold, my arm brushes the drell's body. The matte-weft material of his outerskin suit smells of leather. Its squared collar descends a few inches below his neck, baring a swatch of his green chest. I direct my gaze away from him and his unfathomable, featureless eyes.

In this antechamber light and color is muted. Art hangs on the walls; textured paintings. A cream couch and loveseat surround an enormous chunk of quartz that serves as a coffee table. Brighter light filters in from the interior office. The drell crosses in front of me before I can take a step. He pauses in the entryway to the office proper.

"Coming?" He asks, still smiling that taunting smile. His voice rasps like Dakan's, but it's not as deep and he doesn't have those distinct baritone sub-vocals all turians possess. Rather, it sounds like he has a perpetual frog in his throat. I want to give him a lozenge. Because his eyes are pure black, I can't tell exactly where he looks, but I think he gives me a once over, appraises the goods. I get it at Shadow Matter all the time. On the whole, I enjoy people watching me. Right now I don't. Putting on my best bitch face, I march into Dalessia's office, hip-checking the drell as I pass. He shadows me, chuckling.

The inner office is spacious and airier than the mood lit foyer. My boot heels clack against the lightwood floor. Besides a large, unoccupied desk set back in the center of the room, only a chaise situated by an enormous window and a blown glass hookah decorates the space.

An asari—not Dalessia—drapes over the chaise. One of the four silver pipes attached to the hookah rests between her lips. The drell makes himself comfortable beside her, leaving me on my lonesome in the middle of the room. His asari friend snakes an arm across his chest. Fingernails dig into his thigh as she slides the pipe from her mouth, throws her head back, and breathes out a delicate stream of perfumed smoke. Snagging the pipe, the drell takes a hit. He watches me all the while.

"Good morning, Persephone." Dalessia emerges from the automatic door behind her desk. The entrance seals faster than I can determine what's behind it. "You certainly had an eventful evening." She sits at her desk and lifts a slender remote from its surface. A click of a button reveals a vid screen hidden behind a retracting panel at my back.

I twist around. _Citadel Space's_ logo is frozen on the screen. Dalessia reanimates the banked teaser. Stock footage of shady characters and goings on plays with dramatic narration from Emily Wong. There are shots of a burned out Chora's Den, doors cordoned off with C-Sec's projected crime tape, officers gathering evidence. And then there's me. I don't look or sound too bad considering the circumstances. Dalessia speaks over my interview clip.

"Already all over the channels and I haven't even booked you on a go-see." She stills the teaser and flops the remote aside. "The spot on _Citadel Space_ will be a good supplement for your pre-package. I still want you to do a cold reading here. Vlair?"

The drell gives Dalessia his attention.

"Set up the camera," the asari orders. "I'll want some stills when she's done with the read through."

While Vlair vanishes behind the automatic door—the asari he abandons pouts at her loss—Dalessia quizzes me on my other talents.

"Can you sing?"

"If my life depended on it," I say. I can carry a tune, but I have no range or power.

"If you can't live out of the galactic limelight, it does." Dalessia adjusts the sleeves of her dove gray suit. "Give me the chorus of _Name in the Stars_."

At least I know the song she throws out. _Name in the Stars_ is Zanica Lau'la's latest hit. Halfway through the infectious hook, Vlair re-enters the room. Under his arm he carries a metal folding chair. At his back, a mini campanion hovers. His nose wrinkles at my rendition of the hypra-pop single.

Everyone's a critic.

Dalessia bobs her head in time with my melody. I wrap it up and the chaise lounging asari giggles. Smoke she's inhaled puff-puff-puffs out of her mouth. She coughs and splutters as Vlair sets up my chair. Dalessia silences the peanut gallery with a single sharp glance. The asari quiets herself, stares out the picture window, and sucks on her pipe.

Massaging her temples, Dalessia says, "Well, it's not entirely hopeless. There's such a thing as Live Pitch."

The program she means keeps a singer in pitch synthetically. Two, near invisible nodes go on either side of the throat and control tone, endurance, and power. Even the most tone deaf elcor can sound like a star. The criticism doesn't sting too bad. Singing is my weakest talent.

"Sit," Dalessia says and holds out a datapad which Vlair accepts after her finishes adjusting the mini campanion.

Seated, I slump my purse off my shoulder and let it slouch against the chair's legs. Vlair passes the portable screen to me. I scan the lighted text fixed in frame. It's a promotional script for a bogus perfume.

Dalessia waves her hand. "Whenever you're ready." An active terminal demands most of the asari's focus. I don't let her dismissive attitude throw me.

My lips move as I read through the script once, twice, cramming all the info into my short term memory. Lifting my head, I let the datapad drop into my lap and address the campanion's recording eye.

I do well until I reach the middle of my monologue, then my mind blanks. The pause I take seems eternal. A trickle of sweat creeps down my neck. Words, phrases, scroll across my mind's eye. They're not in the script, but they sound good, so I recite them and finish with an actual line I've memorized.

Vlair, who stands behind the campanion with his hands clasped behind his back, cocks his head sidelong as though testing the quality of my words. He casts an over the shoulder glance at Dalessia. The asari rests both elbows on her desk. Plum colored fingers steeple in front of her face. They lace together and she inclines her head in deference to me.

"Good. Good." She swivels her desk chair to face her p-interface and enters in data from her light key console. "Stills," she says to Vlair who interprets her one word command with no difficulty. Snatching the mini campanion from the air, the drell collapses the device and reshapes it.

"There's a temp contract on that datapad," Dalessia says.

Tilting up the screen, I see it's true. The perfume script is gone. Legal jargon replaces it.

"Take your time."

Dalessia has read my mind. I make myself read every word, every bit of fine print I don't fully grasp though anxious tremors shake my arms. My brain screams _sign, sign, sign!_ But I can't, not without knowing Band Cluster's terms. Legs drawn up, I sit cross legged in my uncomfortable chair and suck on my upper lip as I read. Nothing comes off fishy, but the term of representation is shockingly brief.

Two weeks.

That's my booking window. If I don't generate at minimum ten notices of interest or book two jobs in two weeks, I'm toast.

"Temp contracts are standard for Band Cluster's courted talent," Dalessia says, interpreting my frowning, pooched out lips.

Despite my best efforts, my poker face has slipped. These interest and booking quotas are ridiculous. I've jumped through two of the asari's hoops. How many more tricks must I turn?

Dalessia observes the shift of emotions over my face. "If no one's interested in booking, I've no further interest in you. There are too many opportunities available for the agency to waste time with," her eyes flick up and down, "dead weight."

I clench the datapad so hard the frame creaks.

Dead weight? _Dead weight?_ Dalessia Kella has no idea who she's dealing with.

The datapad's stylus slides free of its frame's upper corner with a sharp snick. Scrolling to the bottom of the contract, I sign my name and place the date in the appropriate field. She needs a thumb print scan too. My plasilk suit has built in gloves. For a print scan, my whole top must come off. I rub my sheathed fingers together and am about to mention my conundrum when Dalessia cuts me off.

"I'll need you out of all that," Dalessia waves a hand at my outfit, "for the stills. Take your hair down too. You may keep your underwear on. Are you ready, Vlair?"

"I am."

While I've come to grips with my training wheel contract, Vlair has completed the campanion's transformation into a palm friendly still shooter. He waits on me, but doesn't appear impatient. I clamber up from my seat. The backs of my legs knock the chair and it shrieks over the hardwood floor. Dalessia and Vlair wince. The chaise asari bites down on her sliver pipe and groans. Shoulders hunched, I fold the chair and—kicking my purse as I go—lean it against the wall. I drop the datapad atop my bag. Then I begin negotiating my complex outfit.

The attached overtunic and jacket, which most resembles a hardsuit, comes off first. Chucking those pieces by the chair, I proceed to shuck myself out of the skin tight bodysuit beneath. Plasilk peels from my sweat misted body. The suit's built in support made a bra redundant, so I'm bare from the waist up. Cool air swirls around me and raises goosebumps all over my arms. My nipples tingle and harden.

Doubled over, I've rolled the bodysuit down to my waist. I straighten to work the stubborn garment over my hips.

"What is that?" Dalessia's inquiry freezes my clumsy strip tease.

I'm momentarily bewildered, then I remember the gauze and medical tape tacked to my chest. Of course, the bandage will ruin the full body stills Dalessia needs for my pre-package. An aching knot forms in my gut. Fingering my wrappings, I divulge the brutal events the _Citadel Space_ teaser hasn't revealed. If my stoicism impresses Dalessia, it doesn't show. Transfixed by my bandaged chest, the asari pinches her bottom lip and leans back in her chair.

"Let's see the extent of it," she says and motions to Vlair.

The drell pockets the collapsed campanion and encroaches into my personal space. I've already started picking at the medical tape. Vlair sweeps my hands out of the way and, in one swift gesture, rips the gauze from my tender skin like someone waxing my bikini line. A guttural cry tears from my clenched jaws.

"You fuck!" I strike his chest. The light blow doesn't move him. All I've done is jammed my fingers. I shake my stinging hand.

"Does he ever," the couch asari breathes out with her latest puff.

Neither my pitiful hand to hand nor the bawdy comment from the puffed out peanut gallery dissuades Vlair from his appraisal of my recent disfigurement. After he drapes the bandage over the folding chair's back, he bows and lowers his face too near my chest. I take a shaky step back and he stills me, catching my forearms.

"Just a moment," he says.

Warm breath courses over my skin. Sandpapery fingers pinch and stretch the sutured slash above my breasts. I grunt and hiss at the little spikes or pain his prodding invokes. My nerves are ultra-sensitized by his proximity to my bare self. His touches aren't sexual, but he's very male and very close and very not unattractive.

Vlair sighs. "Sloppy," he mutters and pulls away. Over his shoulder, he addresses Dalessia, "Barely more than a scratch."

A _scratch_? Is he nuts?

I nurse my wound which, in my opinion, warrants far more than cursory irritation.

"We can doctor the stills," Dalessia says. "Go ahead and take them. If she books, we'll back a few regenerative treatments at Pure. That should take care of any scarring."

The drell's chin dips in assent and he tugs the collapsed campanion from his pocket. He raises the viewfinder to his eye, then hesitates, lowers the device.

"Your hair."

Vlair draws close again. One arm circles around my head and eases the pins from my upswept hair which sheets passed my waist. Swathes of it fall over my shoulders. Vlair's fingertips brush my cheek when he retreats to shoot the stills. He takes a tight shot of my face, my profile, a couple full bodies. They upload to Dalessia's terminal. I see them through the back of the semi-transparent screen. She resizes the shots, makes the red slash across my chest disappear, ports and arranges them onto one official agency document.

Work finished, Vlair re-pockets the campanion and attempts to redress my wound. Snarling, I snatch the bandage from his grasp and press it to my chest. The medical tape, dulled with sloughed skin cells and fine hairs, barely sticks to me. It'll drop off without constant pressure. My suit's tight enough for that. My dismissal sends Vlair back to the chaise where he sprawls alongside the asari. He slides the wetted pipe from her mouth. A pink tongue curls invitingly at him. I give their intimate display my back.

Two itching patches bloom on my shoulder blades as I wriggle back into my suit. The drell's eyes are on me. I know it. I ignore it. Half dressed, I snatch up the datapad and press my thumb to the scanner before I slip my arms into by bodysuit's gloved sleeves.

"Your pre-package is on the way out." Dalessia swivels her office chair so she faces me. "I'll route any offers to your sig. Make the appointments and I'll make you a star."

_Yeah_, I think. _Easier said than done._

* * *

The human is gone. The leaf is spent. Vlair sucks at the pipe anyhow, the metal cool and tangy against his tongue. Anise, the leaf's flavor, tinges the back of his throat. Behind him, Enel dozes, utterly spent on the smoke.

"She's booked tonight." His supposed mistress rocks in her chair. The dark tips of her head crest peek above her seat's curved back. "Quasar wants her for a kinetic ad series."

Vlair trails a finger down Enel's cheek. The slumbering asari mewls softly, but doesn't wake. The sound sends a ripple of pleasure through him, stiffens his cock. Enel makes that sound when he's in her. He'll hear that noise quite a bit before the day is done.

Rising from the chaise, Vlair bends and works his hands beneath Enel's body. He lifts her. Slack arms bump his backside when he slings her over his shoulder.

"I'll have her up in time," Vlair says and strokes Enel's bottom, tweaking one cheek hard. She groans and quiets. She's smoked too much. Kella has spun around.

"Don't wear yourself out with Enel. You're going out tonight."

Vlair expects this command.

"You think the human is a suitable candidate?" He asks.

"That's what you'll determine. She possesses the correct qualities. Follow her. Establish her routine, her social network. She may only be good for another line of revenue. In that case, we'll keep searching."

_Neve Cezetti, your life is in my hands._

In his hands is exactly where Vlair prefers his women.

With Enel in tow, Vlair abandons Kella's office for the suite upstairs. Toeing open the bedroom door, he crosses the carpeted chamber and settles the asari onto the bed. Frosted windows fill the room with gray light. The gray sheets are still tangled from the previous evening. The mattress dips when he sits and Enel stretches herself awake. She yawns, throws an insistent arm about his waist and tugs. He gives her what she wants. That's his purpose, but this liaison is his choice.

Enel's hands undo his trousers' fastenings. The buckles give her trouble. He helps her, guides her hands with his own. Puppeting her pleases him and he enjoys the frenzied way they tangle.

Sex is his answer. And it's always better when the woman cradling his hips doesn't have to die.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Oh, I'm Nervous And I Don't Know What To Do**

There's no line at Zakera Ward's C-Sec information desk. An Asian man occupies the terminal. A semi-circular desk curves around him and a wall of intranet and extranet panes separates us. I peek through a seam in the tiled data screens and wave at the officer. Grumbling, he shuffles his active panes like a digital game of three card monty, creating a data free window so we can talk. Wei is embroidered in the name space on the right breast of his blues.

"May I help you?" Wei asks and swigs from the mug of coffee next to his light key console. Lips smacking, he sticks out his tongue and casts the cup out of arm's reach.

"I'm looking for a C-Sec officer named Dakan." I fiddle with the little charm attached to my zipper.

"You got a last name on him?"

I shake my head. Wei swipes another small intranet pane between us. He populates its empty fields from his light key console.

"This Dakan on Zakera Ward?"

"Pretty sure."

As Wei executes a database search, I pine for the Presidium. I already miss the space and greenery and sunlight.

"There are three Dakans on Zakera Ward," Wei says. "Two at the Presidium Junction hub office and one at the point hub." He scans the officer profiles. "That's an academy trainee on the point. We've got a detective and a patrol officer at the Junction hub. Any of those sound right to you?"

"The patrol officer."

"Dakan Karakik. He's on the first floor. Third desk on the left. Give me your resident ID and I'll check you in."

A flood of officers returning from patrol engulfs me in the entrance to the Junction hub. One of them whistles, but there are so many I can't tell which one. Jostling out of the group, I tour the desks on the left side of the front office. Dakan's station is vacant. I almost miss it because his name plate is overturned. A cascade of paperwork has toppled it. Nudging some of the documents out of the way, I prop up his name. I rub my fingers together. There's some sort of sticky residue on the name plate that leaves my plasilk gloves tacky.

"Excuse me, miss." A turian in a scuffed hardsuit steps behind Dakan's desk. Navy colony markings decorate his light carapace. Overstuffed manilla folders weigh down his arms. "Are you looking for someone?"

"Yes. Have you seen—"

"Detective Tallen." Dakan drops a hand on the detective's shoulder. "I'll take those case files for you. I'm sure there are more important duties that require your attention."

* * *

Officer Karakik froze under the attention of his superior officer. They played a brief tug-of-war with the fat files Karakik had pulled on senior detective Chellik's behalf. Dakan finally wrestled the documentation away from the officer and clapped him hard on his armored shoulder before the turian could argue.

"I'll have the relevant information scanned and sent to your sig by tomorrow morning." Dakan ushered the officer away from his own desk and shoved him towards Sirrus's work station. Luckily, the salarian was still out on patrol and his seat was vacant. Like a lost toddler, Karakik wandered over to his fellow officer's desk and plopped into the salarian's seat.

Dakan set the case files on Karakik's desk, then caught them when they almost avalanched off the desktop's ledge. Gathering them, he set the case work on the floor instead. When he popped back up, he extended his hand.

"Neve, please, sit. Is something wrong?" He shook the woman's hand and they both sat.

Dakan had noticed Neve the moment he'd stepped from the equipment room with his recently approved bug, delivery syringe packed with a sig breaker program, and micro tube cam. That she'd selected officer Karakik's desk had conveyed part of her story. She'd come to search him out for reasons she'd soon divulge. Ignorant of his family name, Tallen, and his true rank, she'd received faulty information from the information desk. She'd followed her false lead all the way to the patrol officer's desk. Dakan found it fortunate he'd intercepted her before she'd discovered her error. He didn't want her knowing he was a detective. Didn't want any questions about his cases. Lies begat lies and, though Dakan's mind was sharp and his memory superb, he didn't want to trip over the complexity of his falsehoods.

"There is, actually." Neve's gloved hand fluttered at her chest. She pressed the place where Kev had cut her.

Ah, he knew she hadn't paid attention when he'd showed her how to care for her wound.

"If you have an infection—"

"No, I'm fine. It's just raw from my shower this morning. My problem is my friend."

"I don't follow." Dakan tracked Neve's hand as it moved from her chest to her shoulder. Fingers toyed idly with her purse strap.

At Shadow Matter, Dakan planned to plant his requisitioned bug on her. Slip it in her purse when he offered to escort her home. His eyes narrowed on her bag. Maybe he could bug her now. But how could he without her seeing?

"There's an Alliance mom that lives next to me whose husband can't come ashore. C-Sec's blocking his leave."

Mandibles winging out, Dakan said, "There must be a reason for that." He rested his elbows on the document plastered desktop. A crunch and squish under his right arm made him shudder. He'd put his elbow in something chunky. And sticky.

"Not a good one," Neve countered and launched into her tale of injustice, distracting Dakan from whatever unhygienic disaster lay under his arm.

Color spread over her cheeks as she pleaded her neighbor's case. Her face was the same pink shade as her lips, which made plump, galvanizing shapes, forming the sounds that came from her mouth. Blushing was unique to humans. The involuntary response came in handy whenever Dakan interrogated one of the species.

Why Neve went red, he couldn't determine. It certainly wasn't the temperature. The C-Sec offices were ice boxes. The body hugging suit she wore probably kept her comfortable. Did her friend's predicament bother her that much? She couldn't keep eye contact with him. Every few seconds, her sightline dropped from his face to the desk or swam to the right or left. Over and over she wetted her lips, the tip of her tongue darting out from her mouth. Nervous. Why was she nervous?

"So." Neve squinted and bared her teeth in a pained smile. "Do you think you can help?"

Dakan had caught the gist of the issue, but he needed more information. He needed the case file. And a sanitary wipe. Lifting his arms from the varren's den of a desk, he found a half-eaten, melty chocolate bar stuck to his elbow. With two talons, he tweezed the purple foil wrapper plastered to the sweet and, like a bit of toilet paper, used it to scrape the messy candy from his arm. He dropped the ruined snack into the overflowing waste basket next to Karakik's desk.

"I can't believe you gave me such shit about my apartment," Neve said.

Using one talon to peek under the blanket of stained and crinkled paper work covering the desk, Dakan said, "You've caught me in a rare moment of disorganization."

"I bet."

Satisfied the papers concealed no additional vending machine booby traps, Dakan swept the documents into orderly stacks and uncovered Karakik's terminal power tower like an archaeologist unearthing a long buried artifact. He powered on the machine. A prompt displayed on the interface.

_Please enter user password._

Dakan sucked in a breath. On the opposite side of the room, Karakik lifted a mug of stale coffee to his nose, sniffed, and wisely discarded the container. Dakan couldn't signal the officer and be discreet. Unable to do anything at Sirrus's desk, Karakik brought up an extranet pane on his omni-tool.

_His omni-tool._

Under Karakik's desk, Dakan activated his own interface gauntlet. The warm, citrus glow of the desk terminal cancelled out his omni-tool's luminescence. Before Neve noticed his inactivity, he opened a chat window and sent an invitation to Karakik's p-sig. When the young turian first joined Zakera Ward's Junction hub, Dakan had brought him and a few other new officers out for drinks. All their personal sig IDs were stored in his contacts. The officer's omni-tool chimed and, in less than a second, Karakik's p-sig ID registered in the chat window.

DARAKIKZ: Detective?

DTALLEN: Yes

DARAKIKZ: With all due respect, sir, what the hell is going on?

Dakan checked on Neve. The woman was absorbed with the vibrant scarf tied to her bag. He hurried with his next message. Human attention spans were notoriously short, second only to the salarians. In half a minute she'd be wondering why he dawdled.

DTALLEN: Long story. Woman's a case pawn. Need your terminal passcode.

Karakik jolted in his seat when he read the message.

DARAKIKZ: What?! No way!

DTALLEN: One case file. You have my word. No snooping.

Mandibles flicked out and in, illustrating Karakik's obvious irritation. Talons tapped on his omni-tool's message pad.

DARAKIKZ: …

DTALLEN: ?

DARAKIKZ: Ch3llikSuxQuad

Dakan snorted, concealed his laughter by coughing into his fist. As he entered in Karakik's passcode, the officer in question hunkered sheepishly over his omni-tool and exited the chat window.

True to his word, Dakan pulled Roger Thursharp's case file and nothing more. A copy of a statement made by Turwin Rakow was attached to Thursharp's case as well as an ID number link to another human's file. Everything Neve related appeared accurate. Rakow hadn't pressed charges against Thursharp, but the turian shop owner had a plethora of connections in C-Sec. Rakow was the son of a celebrated general in a family of celebrated generals. Anyone on record as having crossed him would always face trouble on the Citadel. Dakan clucked his tongue.

"Find anything?" Neve asked. Leaning forward, she nearly put herself through the interface screen. Her eyes were wide and bright with hopeful anticipation.

Dakan's throat clicked when he swallowed. "This turian involved in the incident…he has a great deal of influence on the Citadel, especially in turian circles. The Rakows are an elite military and merchant family."

"I see."

Humans couldn't detect conversational subtleties conveyed in the lower ranges of a turian's sub-vocals. Neve didn't need that skill to grasp his subtext. She stared into her lap. Her lips puckered as she sucked the inside of her cheek, creating a shadowed hollow on the left side of her face. Hope no longer brightened her features. Dakan had quashed it. Though she smiled at him when she spoke, he knew she forced the expression.

"Well, thank you for checking. I'll see you around."

The moment she started getting up, Dakan leapt from his chair. Reaching over the desk, he caught Neve's arm.

"I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression," he said, releasing her when she glanced down at his hand. "Turwin Rakow is influential, but Thursharp's innocence is clear from the file. I know a few people down in Processing. I'll talk to them."

"Really?"

There. There was Neve's genuine smile. It intensified her innate appeal and made him puff his chest in pride. She'd come to him for help. She believed in him. The thought warmed him all over. A small voice inside him chirped as he nodded at Neve.

_This is wrong. She's a case pawn. You're supposed to be bugging her, not doing her favors._

Right. His recently acquired surveillance equipment. All the requisitioned items he'd stored in a safe compartment in his hardsuit before he'd sat. The bug would go in her purse. He could always plant it tonight, but then…

"Have you already met with your talent scout?" Dakan asked.

"I did."

Shit. Another wasted opportunity. Was Neve even a viable lead anymore?

"Did it go well?"

Cocking her head, Neve said, "Yes and no. Dalessia's still interested in me, so there's that."

Oh, thank the legion.

"I was about to step out for lunch," Dakan said. "If you have time to join me, we could go over the particulars of Thursharp's case. The more information I have on him and his family, the more sympathy I might be able to stir up in Processing."

_And you can tell me all about your meeting with Kella._

"Where'd you have in mind?" Neve asked.

"Tivictus and O'Callahan's," Dakan blurted.

"Are you _kidding_ me?"

The outburst spun Dakan's head. If he could have turned red, he would have. Sam was framed in the front office's rear entrance, his mouth open and his eyes wide with disbelief. Lunch at Tivictus and O'Callahan's had been Sam's idea. Dakan owed him more than a meal or two. He'd asked his human friend to meet him in the front office at noon. The Networks tech was right on time.

"Alright," Neve said.

Behind her back, Sam gestured at her and gave Dakan a what-the-hell look. Making certain Neve was already on her way out, Dakan mouthed apologies to Sam. His human friend rolled his eyes and waved Dakan off, then he paused.

_Not cool, Dakan_. Sam mouthed. _You owe me big time._ He held his hands apart and established exactly how big. _My terms._

Picking at the underside of his head fringe, Dakan dipped his chin in agreement, then he slipped out of the office after Neve.

* * *

_Bros before hos_ was also a bit of wisdom the turians hadn't assimilated into their culture. Sam trudged back up to the Networks cave.

They called the Networks department "the cave" for a reason. The spacious office was dark, pitch black once the automatic doors sealed shut. They had overheads, but the techs preferred them off unless major system repair was necessary. And they had flashlights for that.

Active terminals lit up each occupied cubical. Colored light from various interfaces was enough to navigate by. Sam followed the trail of populated cubes until he reached his own. He hadn't powered down his system. Besides the cavernous atmosphere, techs rarely left their nooks at C-Sec and most other officers referred to them as "in hibernation." There were showers on the upper levels and no shortage of food delivery services. Hell, he only went home every few days when fast food and energy drinks couldn't keep his batteries charged.

Sam pulled a take out box of orange chicken and rice from his mini-fridge and a can of YD-Awake. The mouth of the can clicked and hissed when he popped it open. Candy-sweet, carbonated liquid fizzed down his throat. Ungodly amounts of caffeine already had his brain and body buzzing.

Like everyone else in his department, Sam lived his personal and professional life on the extranet. C-Sec had better equipment than anything any of the techs could afford on their salaries. The higher ups didn't mind Networks using C-Sec's systems for personal recreation as long as they weren't on shift, all their projects got handled, and all personal activity stayed legal. Since Sam's lunch plans had been cancelled, he had an hour of personal time to kill.

Hopping onto the extranet, Sam brought up his Dream Reality account. While he waited out the load screen—the software company's motto _All your dreams are realities_ scrolled across the pane while animated vignettes from their many IMEX games played in the background—he captured fried chunks of citrusy chicken with a splintered set of disposable chopsticks.

He wasn't mad at Dakan. Not really. Yeah, ditching him for Neve was shitty, but Sam understood. He understood what it was like to be so into someone that they started changing you little by little just by the virtue of their proximity. Dakan was changing, though Sam didn't think his turian friend knew it. Before Neve, the detective's passions lay with his work, his people, the odd extranet game, and…that's it. As far as Sam could tell, Dakan didn't have many close friends besides himself. He wondered if that had anything to do with his turian friend's exotic bedroom preferences.

Dakan definitely had a thing for aliens.

Sam didn't suppose many turians would be down with the extent of the detective's commitment to bringing disparate species together. An open interspecies relationship had damaged at least one C-Sec turian's career that Sam knew of. Dakan had to be careful.

_He won't be_, Sam thought and set his take out to the side. A pretty face could strike the smartest man dumb.

Logging into his loaded Dream Reality account, Sam selected a hack and slash fantasy realm to run around in for the rest of his break. Playing in the fantasy realm only required half of Sam's attention. The other half he directed to a new personal project: who the hell was Neve Cezetti? He spawned a second extranet pane and a systems window. Lines of code he keyed in displayed in the vacant window.

Sam had Dakan's back. If his turian friend couldn't be careful around this woman, Sam would make damn sure Dakan was safe _with_ her. Club dancers shared common traits. They were attention hungry, vain, dosers of a sort, and notorious users. They used good looks and, in some cases, charisma to pump as much money out of their marks as possible. That mentality infected their personal lives. Sam blinked away the image of a woman he usually kept locked deep with his most repressed memories. Women like that didn't have healthy relationships. Maybe Neve was different. He couldn't know, but when he finished constructing his tailored sieve program, he'd find out.

Dakan deserved to know the truth about this woman before he made an extremely poor life decision. Neve's history—unbiased data stored in the Citadel's residential archives—would speak for itself.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: She'll Have Fun Fun Fun 'Til Her Daddy Takes The T-Bird Away**

Tivictus and O'Callahan's is on Zakera Ward in the Za-Keppa district. Since the Za-Keppa district is a few blocks from Presidium Junction, Dakan and I don't spring for a skycar. We walk. I fume.

_What the hell's the matter with you?_

What indeed. When I left my complex this morning I had a plan: track down Dakan, charm the shit out of him, and get him to work his C-Sec buddies so Roger could take his shore leave. Technically, I haven't failed, but nothing went as planned. What happened to all my confidence? When I sat before Dakan I became a babbling, nervous wreck. I never have stage fright. I love performing.

The strange, sick excitement swirling in my belly doesn't subside as I walk. I check out Dakan from my periphery. He faces forward, intent on our path. The crowd parts for us because he's C-Sec. The hard carapace plating the turian's face makes reading him difficult. Turian faces aren't as expressive as a human's or asari's. Even the drell and salarians have a range of visual emotion cues. Krogan are only ever pissed, so they don't count and at least the elcor tell you what they mean up front. Much of a turian's mood can be gleaned from the movement and position of their mandibles and the angle of their head fringes.

Dakan's mandibles shutter both sides of his face. His fringe cants slightly upward. Assesment: standoffish. Probably, the crowd has him on guard. If a C-Sec officer witnesses a crime in progress, he or she must step in. That's why Dakan helped me last night. His brooding is likely his officer's paranoia flaring up, but what if it's not? What if it's me?

A neon banner for Q-Ping Communications catches my eye. Spinning on my heel, I turn right and tromp off in the boutique's direction, jaw set and aching with tension. My abrupt change in course has Dakan performing an awkward jig around pedestrian traffic. He meets up with me in front of a glass display case. His reflection covers the mid-range line of omni-tools I browse. I address his reflection.

"Sorry. I forgot I had to stop here. Go on without me if you'd like. I don't want to hold up your lunch." I pretend-inspect the omni-tools, but really I watch Dakan in the glass. His focus doesn't waver from the back of my head.

"I'll wait for you," he says.

A human sales associate approaches me. Hair like mahogany slicks back over his scalp. A brand imitation suit covers his chest and shoulders. He's bathed in cologne. A smoky voice extols the virtues of Q-Ping's omni-tools. When he notices my tapping foot and drumming fingers, he wraps up his pitch and requests my system requirements.

My requirements aren't extensive. I never bothered with an omni-tool because I never needed up-to-the-second updates from my p-sig or any of my subscribed channel feeds. But Dalessia's sending me client offers over the next two weeks. I can't go unplugged anymore. Missing an appointment means a possible default on my temp contact.

The suave sales associate appears disgruntled by my meager requirements. He won't unload a top of the line omni-tool hand guard on me. In bored tones, he goes over their basic hand guard models and removes the demo systems from their case. Without any additional help from him, I test the display models.

Fine, smart metal chains fasten at my wrist and middle finger. This hand guard is a pretty piece of tech with an ornamental action gem centered in my palm. Its lightness would have me constantly checking my hand to make sure I hadn't lost the thing.

As I switch from model to model, my purse strap slides down my arm. I hitch it back onto my shoulder. The next shift of my stance brings my bag down to my elbow again. The model I hold clacks on the counter when I slam it down—I get the eye from a nervous female sales associate and pet the abused model as if that makes up for any damage I've done to Q-Ping's equipment—and I grab hold of my strap. Talons encased in hardsuit gloves touch my knuckles.

"I can hold that for you," Dakan says.

I'm handing my bag over when the female sales associate who gave me the eye slides from behind the counter.

"Hi, I'm Angie. I'm so sorry. Daniel," she means the jerk salesman who left me to gush over a volus client at the premium models display, "should have offered, but we have personal storage for clients. Shall I take your bag?"

"Are your rates per second or per minute?" I ask. Most boutiques offer storage for a client's personal items. The shittier establishments charge and you don't find out about it until you see your terminal receipt.

"Q-Ping Communications provides client storage gratis," she replies and appears proud to say so.

Accepting Angie's offer, I shrug off my purse and let her take it. A stunted noise of protest escapes Dakan before he shuts his jaws. I wonder if it's chivalry points he's after. He has enough banked for the next year and a half, but the gesture leaves me giggly on the inside. Dredging up the last time a man was this nice to me takes a full minute. Allen, my stepfather, treated me and my mom like we were the center of his universe. I miss that. I miss him.

Thinking about my stepdad clouds my mood and I'm relived when Angie returns. Together, we make short work of the remaining demo systems. Q-Ping's Gevity model is my final selection. The sturdy hand guard has a good weight and little adornment. An etched sigil—a salarian hieroglyph, I think—laced with production fibers takes the place of an action gem. Alien letters also encircle the hand guard's wrist and finger bands. Touching my middle two fingers to the sigil at the center of my palm envelops my arm in the omni-tool's interface. I play with the demo system's applications. This layout is easy to use and customization is simple.

At the checkout terminal, I imagine my bonus sprouting wings and flying away.

_Omni-tools are practical._ I coax myself out of my buyer's funk. _When you have a big girl contract with Band Cluster and you're banking credits by the pile you can have completely frivolous shopping sprees every month._

Day dreams of fame and fortune make me feel better. The rose colored mist of my fantasy world cocoons and carries me the rest of the way to Tivictus and O'Callahan's. My nose twitches at the scent of frying onions and cooking meat. The dream fog surrounding me dissipates.

Tivictus and O'Callahan's is a theme restaurant. Rogan Tivictus and Brian O'Callahan, a turian and a human who met during Council sanctioned cultural exchanges after the First Contact War, opened the diner together. The two men shared a passion for movies, food, and earth pop culture circa 1950. Their grandsons own the diner now, but a picture of the original Tivictus and O'Callahan hangs above the hostess podium where Dakan and I wait for a free seat. The old friends have their arms flung about each other's shoulders. Grease stains splotch their aprons. O'Callahan smiles and Tivictus, well, he looks dour like all turians do, but I'm sure he's happy.

"Car for two?" The hostess skids to a halt by the podium. The red wheels on her reproduction roller skates squeak on the floor tile. Black, cross hatched wheel marks patch frequent stopping areas around the diner.

Dakan confirms we're a couple and our hostess teases two actual, laminated menus from a side compartment on her podium. Waving us along, she skates down an aisle flanked on both sides by rows of booths shaped like miniature versions of antique groundcars. Her scissoring legs lift the pink gingham hem of her uniform skirt. We get the backseat of a '57 Chevy near the back of the diner. A human couple occupies the front seat. They're already chowing down while an ancient black and white western plays on the screen in front of them. The movie's soundtrack pipes from a set of speakers perched on the back of their booth-seat. Music and conversation buzz all around us. The juddering skid of the wheeled staff and the clang of metal and barking shouts from the open kitchen break over the distracting hum.

"Is this alright?" Our hostess asks and a large, pink bubble expands from her lips. She pops and smacks her gum. The grind of her jaw swishes her blond pony tail.

"Yes," I say and slide into the booth. Dakan sidles in beside me. His leg bumps mine and he's quick to give me more room.

Slapping our menus onto the table, our hostess about faces and zooms back the way she came, assuring us our waiter will be here shortly.

A clunky remote with a dimmed touch interface separates the human condiments from the turian. The open kitchen on the left side of the diner is the same. Humans man one side of the grill and a team of turians work the other side. The segregation prevents cross contamination with the food. Humans and turians don't share the same amnio acid makeup. Eating the wrong food would make a lot of aliens sick. As far as I know Tivictus and O'Callahan's has never had a mix up.

As Dakan reads the extensive menu, I delve into the features available on our booth's remote. The touch interface is crappy, the old haptics almost unresponsive. I get our screen up and am going through the catalogue of free media and channels when our waiter arrives.

"I'm Chad," he says, whipping out a small pad of paper and a stumpy yellow pencil. "You guys ready?"

Dakan cocks his head in my direction as I've barely batted an eye at the menu. I don't have to. I know what I want.

"Double stack with old American cheese and bacon, elcor order sweet fries, and the triple chocolate shake with extra whipped cream."

To his credit, Chad doesn't stare, but his eyebrows go up as he jots down my order. Dakan blinks at me. Chad prompts the turian for his order which consists of a Wekase club with a side of Palaven seasonal veggies.

"Hungry?" Dakan asks when we're alone.

"Celebrating. It's not everyday I get a temp contract from a top talent agency." I toss the remote in his direction. "Everything in the free catalogue sucks. You pick."

Dakan commandeers the remote. Finding what he wants, he taps a talon on the screen. The selection doesn't register. He taps. Taps again. Growls.

"These remotes aren't turian friendly," he says and covers my hand with his.

Extending my index finger, Dakan uses me as a surrogate stylus. My puppetted fingertip touches the ANN channel button. _Midday Report_ displays on our screen. Anchor Brett Wallis, a black man with gray patches in his close cropped hair, informs us of the day's galactic stories. Captured by the feed, Dakan holds onto my stylus-positioned hand.

"I'm just a convenient tool to you, aren't I?"

Mandibles twitch at my teasing. "How do you mean?" Dakan's deeper sub-vocals almost eclipse his raspy tenor.

Turians. No sense of humor. I lift the hand he squeezes, my finger still pinched between his knuckles.

"Ah. My apologies." Dakan lets me go.

"Relax." Wrapping my fingers around one of his, I flip his hand palm up and touch each talon point. "I'm playing with you. I don't mind lending you my superior fingers."

Dakan sniffs. "Your fingers aren't superior."

"I have four more than you."

"That's not superiority. It's evolutionary inefficiency."

Scoffing, I pull my hand away. Dakan catches it.

"Relax," he says. "I'm playing with you."

Chad delivers our drinks. I sip from the red and white striped straw sticking out of my muddy shake. The mixture's so thick I suck hard enough to hollow my cheeks. Rich, chocolaty liquid—paste, really—coats my mouth. I moan quietly around the straw I hold in my thumb and first two fingers. My pinkie sticks out. I wriggle it definitely.

"Your efficient fingers can't change the channel on that remote."

Stroking the hand I rest on the booth's seat cushion, Dakan says, "Don't let these little species discrepancies get to you. In a few centuries, those redundant appendages might breed out. Turians and quarians still hold out hope for the asari ascension."

Chocolate shake goes up my nose. A laughing-coughing attack seizes me. I hack and splutter all over the table and into my hands. Dakan pats my back like a parent burping a baby.

"Your respiratory and digestive systems might take longer to perfect," he says.

Food arrives in the middle of my inquisition. Having a conversation with Dakan's a lot like being cross examined. If he's half as dedicated in his negotiations with Processing as he is with gathering all the intimate details of Roger's background, I'm sure Allegra's husband will be able to leave the _Overtaker_. Topics switch to Dalessia and my interview—Dakan is especially interested in her office and Vlair and the chaise asari whose name I don't know—and I remember the omni-tool in my bag.

Elbowing my meal out of the way, I flop my bag onto the table and rummage through the main compartment. Q-Ping's hand guard comes out along with a fistful of single credit chips and a pot of honey gloss. I remove the hand guard from its blue box and fasten it to my right hand. Smart metal bands pinch my wrist and middle finger. The default fit's adjustable, but my plasilk gloves blunt my nails. I pick fruitlessly at the fit modifiers.

"I can help with that," Dakan says.

I relinquish my trussed up hand. While circling two fingers around my forearm, Dakan unclasps a side compartment at his hip. I cross my left arm over my right, grab my ginormous burger, and take a mouth-wide-open bite. Beef juice runs down my chin. I lick myself clean before I drip onto my lap. My burger plops on my plate. I chew as Dakan tinkers with my hand guard. A strange tool facilitates his work. The large bite I swallow goes painfully down my throat.

"What's that?" I ask, wondering if I have sesame seeds stuck in my teeth.

Head bent over his project, Dakan says, "An oil dispenser. Came with the maintenance kit when I purchased my omni-tool. The fit modifiers stick a lot on some models."

"Oh."

The dispenser looks like a syringe. I'm surprised Dakan manipulates the little instrument with his large hand. Thumbing the plunger, he lubricates the fit modifiers on my hand guard and pockets the dispenser. Under his subtle manipulation, the bands at my wrist and finger shift until my hand tingles with the flow of regular circulation.

"That's good," I say. "Thanks."

I'm hitting the power sigil centered in my palm when all the screens in Tivictus and O'Callahan's flip to the ANN feed. News feeds take over public screens when something major's gone down. A sober faced Brett Willis stares out over the diner's denizens as dramatic fanfare prompts his scripted report.

"We at ANN have just received word from the Council that celebrated turian Spectre, Saren Arterius, has been convicted of galactic treason. The rogue turian's Spectre status has been revoked. The turian Councilor assures ANN and all galactic residents 'every measure is being taken to apprehend the traitor, Saren, and bring him to justice.'"

The vegetable at Dakan's jaws drops from his fingers. Every turian in the diner freezes. Human voices murmur over the continuing feed. Saren's crimes include the murder of fellow turian, Nihlus Kryik, collusion with the geth, theft of Council property on Eden Prime, and a host of casualties at the human colony. There's more, but I'm not listening.

Why would a turian, or anyone, for that matter, team up with the geth? I don't know much about the synthetic race of AIs other than they're hostile to organics and the quarians made them. A few enviro-suits are scattered in the faux automobiles and at the kitchen bar. Quarians wear the head-to-sole suits because their immune systems are shit. One tear in the suit or loose induction port and, bam! Infection, fever, death.

The geth slaughtered more than half of the quarian population when the self-aware robots revolted and kicked their quarian masters off heir own homeworld. Quarians are a rare sight on the Citadel or anywhere that's not the migrant fleet. They congregate at T and C's because they can eat turian food as long as it's filtered properly.

"I thought the geth killed organics on sight," I say to Dakan who won't be dragged from the feed. A graphic hovers beside the anchor's head. It pinpoints geth sightings in the space beyond the Perseus Veil, the demarcation of geth-controlled space.

"Any ship that's ventured beyond the veil hasn't returned." Dakan shakes his head. "There must be some mistake. Synthetics don't ally with organics. Saren can't be responsible for this. He couldn't have done this. No turian would have."

"Why not?"

Now he faces me. "These alleged actions go against everything we stand for as a people, everything he stands for as one of us and as a Council appointed defender of the galaxy. No turian would sacrifice their reputation or the greater good for personal gain. It isn't done." Our plates rattle when his fist pounds the table. "None of this adds up. Geth on Eden Prime attacking organics en masse? They've always been content with their fenced off plot of space."

Grumbling and bad noise isn't limited to Dakan. None of the turians take the news well. One of them a few cars over shouts at her dining companion, karate chops her palm as she makes her points. Several humans gather around one car. Over the jumble of angry voices I hear the words "Eden Prime," "geth," and "responsible." Fingers point at the few quarians in the diner. The male quarian seated at the kitchen bar—I know he's male from his build and because a fall of patterned fabric doesn't drape his face mask—plunks down a few credit chips and makes a hasty exit. The other two females seated one car over from us slump in their booth.

Dakan's omni-tool flares. "Shit. There'll be trouble tonight." The C-Sec program suite covers his arm. He starts tapping out a message.

The ANN emergency broadcast recycles. I activate my own omni-tool. There has to be more information on the extranet. The pane I open floats above my interface gauntlet. I'm typing "Eden Prime" into its search field when my incoming message alert chimes and my hand guard vibrates. Search abandoned, I access my p-sig's inbox. A new vid mail's at the top of my message queue. I read the sender name and my guts clench. I close my eyes and count to ten. The beginning of a migraine already pounds in my left temple. Inhaling, I rise. Dakan flattens himself against the booth so I can pass.

"You alright?" He asks.

Without turning around, I nod. "Be right back."

* * *

The bag was right there. Right on the table. Unguarded.

Neve headed for the restroom. Dakan waited until she turned into the short hallway that led to the female's area, then he pulled her purse into his lap. She hadn't zippered it shut after she'd extracted her hand guard. He widened the mouth of the main compartment with one finger. Where to put the bug?

The hand guard adjustment had granted him the perfect opportunity to deliver the sig breaker program stored in the delivery syringe. The program, if it worked, gave him remote access to Neve's p-sig. All her messages, incoming and outgoing, and all her activity on the extranet, he could monitor. Once he'd found a decent spot for his bug, he'd have audio and transcript files of her in-range conversations too.

_In the lining_, he thought. _She won't notice that._

Dakan reached his hand deep into the bag and snagged a talon on the silky fabric that lined its interior. The soft, high note of ripping material accompanied the small tear he made. Stretching his left hand to his right hip, he got the bug from his hardsuit's side compartment. The tiny chip, a shard of iridescence, flashed under the light. Fine circuitry patterned its innards, the delicate workings trapped in two sheets of phantome crystal.

Air sighed from Neve's purse when he slipped his hand back inside. Her smell permeated the leather, the cloth, and the contents. Dakan inhaled.

Powder and shadow alphea.

The flower grew in the shade of shaft caves on Palaven where radiation couldn't char its petals and roots.

_Plant the bug._

A wave of revulsion made Dakan cringe. This was wrong. All of it. The sig breaker program, the surveillance, everything.

Neve had emerged from the restroom. A dark crease marked the middle of her brow. She spoke with their waiter whose head bobbed throughout their conversation. The human's eyes traveled over her, lingered on her breasts and her mouth. A fierce urge to drive the human off seized Dakan and he was halfway out of the booth before his rational mind conquered animal instinct.

Dakan ground his fists into the table. He didn't know what pissed him off more: that Sam was right about his feelings for Neve, that he felt anything for Neve, or that what he felt interfered with his job. He glared at the dark haired dancer in her form fitting suit.

Turian. He was turian. Desire would not overcome duty. He shoved his hand into the bag. Rough treatment jostled the sack and a bit of décor attached to the main compartment's zipper knocked his leg, clicked against his hardsuit. He squinted. It was a charm. A charm shaped like a turian. Had she always had it? He couldn't recall.

Gulping, Dakan pinched the bug he couldn't plant. He couldn't do this. There had to be another way. Unless…

Desire and duty weren't at odds.

Exhaling tension, Dakan's posture eased and he tucked the surveillance chip into the tear in the lining. He set Neve's bag atop the table, patted it. This woman was in danger. C-Sec officers couldn't ignore a resident in peril. He was called to protect her and he would. The woman didn't know about NOVA or the caliber of criminal with which she'd involved herself. She couldn't see the vicious web that trapped her. Surveillance kept her safe.

After a final comment to their waiter, Neve paced back to their booth. Her pinched expression communicated her distress. She didn't give Dakan time for questions.

"I'm so sorry about this, but I have to go." She reached over him for her bag. "I didn't realize how late it was. I have to get to the club before my boss shit cans me."

Dakan rose. "I'll get the che—"

"I already took care of it." Gray eyes glanced at the floor. "S'least I can do." Neve started backing away.

"Wait," Dakan said and Neve did. "This Saren-geth business will have a lot of people on edge tonight. Be careful at the club."

Neve's mouth curved up. "I'll do that."

They said their goodbyes. Neve left and Dakan finished his meal. None of the varren circling his dancer would do her harm. He'd make sure of it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: You Never Call Me When You're Sober**

Whatever Lena Cezetti's on, she's been on it a while. That's why mom hasn't sent me vid messages. She knew I'd know. I've been thinking that since I watched her vid in Tivictus and O'Callahan's bathroom.

Shadow Matter's greenroom is quiet without all the other dancers chatting and pulling on their costumes. I sit alone at my primp-station until Shia appears behind me. From my primp-station's mirror, I watch her. The asari's reflection folds her arms.

"Did you not get Sarc's message?"

"I got it." I press my fingertips to my closed lids. The over-the-counters I popped do nothing for my headache.

"Then get your ass changed and on stage. You're in group routines tonight and you don't know the choreography. We're drilling until the door opens. Did Zoakiin set you up?"

Zoakiin, our emcee and resident tech guru, intercepted me on my way to the greenroom. The salarian outfitted me with a p-band and synched me to my official primp-station. Once Shia knows my tech needs are settled she leaves me to change.

An illuso-weave costume waits for me in my cubby. I trade one skin tight suit for another, hiding my hand guard under my gloved sleeve. The slick material doesn't upset my omni-tool's performance. If I press the activation sigil, the light interface materializes over my sheathed arm. I don't go immediately on stage. Seated at the station bench, I replay my mom's vid message.

An extranet pane frames the ghost of my mother. I last saw her digitally ten months ago. The tan she nursed at her health center's pool has faded. Her pale skin is sallow, her cheeks hollow, her brown eyes sunken. Silver strands thread her dark, brittle hair. She hasn't brushed it. Before she speaks, she glances thrice over each shoulder, then she whispers to me over a million light years.

"Hey, sweetie." Though this wraith is hardly recognizable as the elegant woman I remember flitting in and out of our Manhattan apartment, her voice makes my breath hitch. It's sultry and soothing and I tilt my head toward the extranet pane, wishing we could touch through the interface. "I know it's been a while. Can't tell you how much I miss my girl."

There's shuffling in the background. Mom leans back and strains to the left when someone, a male someone, sleep-moans. Wherever she is, it's dim. She can't be at the health center's hospice. They don't allow overnight guests. If she's not staying there, how's she spending the allowance I send every month?

"I guess you can tell," mom looks down at herself, "I'm not in the best way."

No, she's not. I haven't seen her this bad since her first bout of rehab. Back then, dragon was her poison. She hit it hard after Allen died. She's relapsed. For the rest of the vid, my mom hangs her head.

"It's hard down here without you. It's hard being alone all the time." She peels a strip of chapped skin from her lower lip, flicks it away, tears at her mouth again. "I'm in trouble."

_No shit, mom._

"The health center wasn't doing it for me anymore. There's only so much therapy and chakra channeling and nutrition filtering I can take. I'm sharing a place with a…friend. What you send me is more than enough for rent and food but—"

Here it comes.

"—over the last few months, I overspent. My honor credit's dry. If it wasn't an emergency I wouldn't ask." Eyes shining with tears plead with me over the vid. "I need money."

The figure she quotes is more than I have. It's more than my next paycheck.

She needs it by the end of the week.

I shut down the vid.

'Honor credit' is code for 'my dealer's tired of fucking me.' If she's messaging me that means he's threatened her or someone has. Grandma used to field calls like this. I lived with her before my mom cleaned up her act enough to take care of me. I do what my grandma did to keep her daughter alive one more month: figure out what the hell I can hawk for some quick credits.

There's not much I can think of. My p-terminal's four generations behind the current tech. Even if I returned my omni-tool I wouldn't have enough. There's some jewelry I inherited from my grandma and some pieces Allen gave me that I didn't pawn to cover my move to the Citadel. But those have sentimental value.

_Are they worth more than your mother's life?_

My first thought is yes. That jewelry and the memories they represent are worth more than enabling the woman who ditched me at birth, reclaimed me when it suited her, and collapsed into her addiction when her husband died. Is it her fault my step-grandparents shafted us any inheritance? No. But she didn't have to let poverty defeat her. I don't. Grandma didn't.

_Grandma didn't put possessions before people either._

Shia kicks the greenroom door wide. "Neve, did you die in here? Come on, already."

With the house lights up, Shadow Matter loses its seductive magic. Pretending the club's anything but a glorified watering hole is hard. Shia and I run group choreography the rest of the afternoon. She shows me the access elevators for the aperitif tubes and we set my floor schedule.

"Can't I get a solo slot?" I ask as we finalize my forms.

The asari's lips thin. "Not until next week."

A dancer's satellite session pings can double or triple when she solos on the main stage. That's where we make real money. Client fees for satellite sessions go straight to the dancer's account minus the club's twenty percent. My odds of meeting my mom's deadline, without selling all my stuff, increase with every client I attract. Since I've had that bright idea, I've been bugging Shia and she's had enough. Solos are a no go.

I still have my floor shifts in the aperitif tubes. I'll compete with whoever's on the satellite stage. If I crap out, the jewelry is a solid plan B. Who cares about a few shiny trinkets, right?

I'll always have the memories.

* * *

For the umpteenth time, Dakan tried logging in to Neve's p-sig.

Entering his assigned bypass code generated a connectivity error. Either the code was faulty or he'd mis-delivered the sig-breaker program. He shut down the active pane and caught up on Zakera Ward's incident feed.

As he'd suspected, minor skirmishes, fistfights and vandalism, had already spiked in the patrol reports. The incident feed spat out reports of human-turian, turian-turian, and turian-human-quarian altercations. They weren't serious crimes, but they piled up paperwork all the same. He'd made it back to the hub without having to exercise his authority. After he'd parted company with Neve, he'd paid Processing a visit. Roger Thursharp had left the _Overtaker_ an hour ago. Dakan owed favors to two helpful and discreet humans.

A chat window popped up on his interface.

DKARAKIKZ: Executor Pallin just walked in. Headed your way.

Dakan straightened in his chair. When the head of C-Sec passed, multiple case files overlapped the detective's interface. The officers around him suddenly had urgent calls. Those not shouting over their vid screens at bewildered underlings pounded on their light key consoles. Pallin acknowledged the room with a nod and strode into Chellik's office. The automatic door didn't shut all the way.

"I've come from a meeting with the councilor." Pallin's sub-vocals carried his frustration.

Officers terminated their calls and their words-per-minute rates dropped.

"The verdict?" Chellik asked.

"Disastrous." Anger bled through Pallin's primary vocals.

_Must have been some meeting_, Dakan thought. The executor's tirade continued.

"There's no question of Saren's guilt. What's more, the council has Shepard on the case."

Chellik hissed. "We have a human cleaning up our mess."

"Exactly."

"The councilor stood for this?"

Pallin sighed. "He had little choice when confronted with the evidence. That's the least of our problems. Saren's treachery runs deeper than collusion with the geth. I don't know how it's possible, but—"

"One moment, executor."

Chellik closed his office door. A collective groan rose from the officers. With no more gossip forthcoming, Dakan reopened the breaker program pane. He'd already checked the data streams coming in from the bug. The audio recordings and the automated transcriptions flowed into their designated files. There was nothing of worth there, yet.

A package dropped onto Dakan's desk. Sam made himself comfortable. The human perched beside a stack of paperwork. He jerked his head towards Chellik's office.

"The executor in there?"

"Yep," Dakan said, taking the package in his hands. "What's this?"

Sam folded his arms and grinned. "A token of my goodwill. No hard feelings, you know?"

The label on the package read "Xeno-compatibility Corporation Products."

"Shouldn't it be me getting you 'no hard feelings' gifts?" Dakan asked.

"Probably, but you need that more than I do."

Strips of brown paper littered Dakan's desk after he tore open the box. Cradled in molded packing foam was an amber jar topped with a rubbery nipple and a large blister pack containing twelve black, cone shaped objects. He lifted the jar and read the instructions printed on its back.

_Apply a few drops of Balixir to the tongue and soft tissue of the mouth for up to two hours of neutralization. For optimal results, apply to turian or human partner as well._

Dakan fitted the jar in the packing foam and pried out the blister pack. A sheet of silver squares lay beneath it. Eschewing the square packets, he surveyed the blister pack. "Tippers" titled the top of the package. He pressed one of the plastic bubbles that contained a black cone. The bubble and the cone squished under the pressure. Diagrams printed on the flipside detailed Tipper use. From the simplistic renderings of the human and turian interacting on the back, Dakan gathered that Tippers were meant to cap a turian's talons so they didn't injure their human sex partner. The instructions on the jar made sense in context. Using Balixir, humans and turians could exchange trace bodily fluids without putting one or the other in an emergency room. A closer inspection of the sliver packets left in the box revealed raised circles at the center of each square.

"Safety first, Dakan."

Giving Sam a black look, Dakan cast the prophylactics into their box. He put his back to the human. Sam circled around to his other side.

"Oh, lighten up."

"This isn't a joke."

"I'm not—"

A pneumatic hiss announced the opening of Chellik's door. The senior detective scraped along after the executor, babbling platitudes and promises. Sam came to attention at the executive officers' approach. Dakan snatched the sex aids from his desktop and stuffed them into one of his hardsuit's side compartments. When the executive officers passed, Sam saluted them. Baffled, executor Pallin waved. Chellik knocked down the human's hand.

"This isn't the Alliance," the senior detective snarled out.

The big wigs left the office suite. Sam collapsed over Dakan's desk.

"Why did you salute them?" Dakan asked, typing in the sig-breaker's bypass code.

"I don't know," Sam said. "I panicked. Don't think Chellik can tell the difference between any of the Networks techs. I should be in the clear." He picked up his head in time to see the connectivity error Dakan's bypass code generated.

"Problems?"

Dakan relinquished his light key console to Sam. "I don't know what I'm bungling. Maybe the delivery?"

"That's not a delivery error." Through a new code window, Sam poked around the program's guts. "There's your problem." He highlighted a string of numbers, symbols, and letters.

"I don't see it," Dakan said.

"Not surprising. Someone didn't delete their placeholder notes and it's gumming up the works. Give me a minute and you should be good."

On his knees, Sam repaired the breaker program. Dakan monitored his interface's background panes. An alert came up on the incident feed. Dakan leaned forward, bumping Sam's elbow.

"One sec, I'm almost done," the human said.

The alert scrolled away and Sam's code window hid it.

"Minimize that pane," Dakan said.

"It's not a pane, it's—"

Swiping a finger across the interface, Dakan slid the working window aside and selected the incident alert which flashed red. The urgent notice called for all free officers on the Ward to report to the posted location. Officers at the scene needed assistance subduing an R-86.

Dakan leapt from his desk, toppling his chair. Other officers were already on the move, each checking their non-lethal side arms. He joined their company, pushing ahead of the pack.

"I'll just lock your system when I'm done then, shall I?" Sam called after him. The human must have read the posted alert because he said, "Shit, Dakan, is that R-86 going down at Shadow Matter?"

* * *

There's no end to Kella's influence. Her name gets Vlair in the club and a VIP booth in the Shadow Cabaret. An asari hostess in a slinky, black dress takes his order and recommends he peruse their _other_ menu, giving him a suggestive wink. The datapad he plucks from its stand shows a roster of Shadow Matter's talent. Featured dancers have profiles and short vids that detail the women's likes, dislikes, and personalities. Second tier dancers have a profile and accompanying holo. He finds Kella's human amongst the lesser talent.

Vlair trails a finger over Neve's dark hair and traces the curve of her cheek and jaw. An icon at the screen's lower corner pinpoints her location in the club. He remembers when tailing a mark required effort. No one will claim his booth if he leaves. The space is reserved for the duration of his visit.

A passel of admirers flocks about Neve's aperitif tube. Vlair insinuates himself with the aliens—he lets a turian block him so Neve doesn't spy a familiar face—and enjoys the show.

Glass encloses Neve. The woman twirls and contorts inside the clear pipe. The aperitif tube is set in the wall which separates the cabaret from the lounge. Patrons in the quieter half of the club are visible through the glass. During slow segments of the club's soundtrack, she gives a lucky someone her attention. She beckons to a salarian with a smoldering glance, teases an asari with a come hither crook of her finger. Vlair licks his lips. He wouldn't mind taking her up on her unspoken offer.

"You like her?" A human woman whispers to him.

Elasa scents the redhead's breath. Bronzed fingers toy with the delicate stem of a martini glass. Pale green liquid half-fills its shallow bowl. Her hip brushes his.

"I prefer a woman I can touch." Vlair places his hand at the woman's lower back. She spins into him.

"And who says I prefer you?" Her blue eyes are glassy and vacant with intoxication.

_Blue eyes. Bluer skin._

_ Ceaseless laughter after a drunken revel._

_ Soft lips against mine, tart with human wine._

_ A room. A bed. Unskilled hands are clumsy with my mark._

_ My first time. Should have finished her hours ago. Can't._

_ Guilt is a steel blade in my heart._

_ Kisses instead. Moans._

_ Beneath me, she rocks, mouth open, eyes closed._

_ A fissure in my mind. Bright light. Pleasure._

_ Hands around her throat. Mouth wide._

_ Screaming._

Screaming. The redhead at his side won't stop screaming. Vlair entertains lazy thoughts of snapping her neck, then comes to himself, shocked at his lack of restraint. Surfacing from the triggered memory leaves him sluggish. His past and present still tangle. Turning, he sees what the woman sees.

Near the bar, there's a quarian on his back. Humans and turians surround him. A human man straddles the felled alien's hips. The man has a fistful of the quarian's envrio-suit. Like a wrecking ball, the human's other fist comes down over and over, pummeling the quarian's face mask. The mask shatters. The next punch makes a squishing, crunching sound. Red glazes the human's fist. The group swarming the pair barks and bays their triumph.

Vlair isn't sure who throws the next punch, but violence spreads through the club like an ugly stain.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: This Club Is Closed Forever**

There's no way that quarian will survive.

I press my hands to the aperitif tube's curved surface. My breath makes a foggy patch on the glass. Glare from the tube's overheads and my ghostly reflection mars the brutal scene, but can't blot it out entirely.

When the human, a man with a buzz-cut and an Alliance uniform, releases the quarian's enviro-suit the alien flops beneath him. Another quarian breaks through the crowd. She claws at the Alliance officer, lands a kick to his side that knocks him clear of the collapsed alien. Laughing, the human gains his feet. He feints, throwing himself at her in an aborted lunge. The quarian woman falls for his bluff and stumbles into the jeering conglomeration of humans and turians. There must be close to twenty onlookers. One of them shoves her back into the makeshift ring.

Chaos reigns in the club. Those uninterested in the human on quarian brawl or in starting one of their own, flee the cabaret. Panicked bodies collide. They clog the entrance to the Shadow Lounge and overrun the first C-Sec officers on the scene. Club security isn't equipped for an incident of this magnitude. I peer into the crowd, seeking out Zargt or one of the salarian operatives usually holed away in one of the back rooms monitoring the security feeds.

A body slams into my aperitif tube. The impact rattles my sleek cage. I gasp and plaster myself against the enclosure's opposite side. A turian pins a human against the glass. The alien holds the suited man by the throat. There's a crack, a spidery starburst, where the man's head struck. When the turian releases him, red streaks stain the tube. The man doesn't get up. His throat is crushed. Wide, dark eyes stare at nothing. His mouth screams a silent scream. The turian nudges him with his two-toed foot. When the man simply sways and slumps back into position, the turian's attention shifts to the aperitif tube. And its contents.

I stomp on the descent button. Around the cabaret's perimeter, the other floor dancers already sink into the safety of the access level beneath the club. I'm not the only one who's attracted bloodthirsty fans. I am the only one whose fucking descent button sticks.

The elevator platform on which I stand lurches downward then stalls. Cocking back his fist, the turian swings and strikes the glass. He punches again and again. The starburst impact point spreads. Lightning bolt fissures crackle over my enclosure. Music piping into the tube warps. The slurred hypra-pop synthphony becomes nightmarish and the overheads flicker. I jump on the descent button. Mechanisms that should lower me into the access level generate a pitiful whir-buzz that quickly peters out.

Broken glass spits into the aperitif tube when the turian's fist blows through the damaged enclosure wall. An armored limb snakes into the jagged breach. Blue blood spatters the floor, my boots, and thighs. There's not much maneuvering room in the tube, but I dodge the alien's grasping fingers. Snarling, he tries for me again and I catch his hand. He laughs, starts beating the tube with his other fist. He thinks he's got me. He's wrong.

Fisting my hand around his thumb, I twist and yank up hard. There's a loud pop and the turian hollers, jerks his arm back through the shattered opening. As I grind my heel over the descent button, he throws himself against the tube. My enclosure won't stand his assault much longer.

The mechanisms controlling the elevator platform squeal to life. I begin my short flight to the access level. The cabaret is half out of view when the turian breaks through. I cover my head. A shower of glass shards pelts my arms, slices my costume's thin material. Hands clamp around my wrists. Despite my kicking and flailing, the turian hauls me out of the aperitif tube and throws me to the floor.

As I clamber up carpet rasps against my knees, sandpapering off a fine layer of skin. A hand comes down on my head. Talons curl in my hair and scrape my scalp. The turian yanks me to him and spins me around. I flinch when his arm shoots out because I think he's going to hit me. Instead, his hand wraps about my throat, constricts. I wheeze, sucking down what air I can.

With his idle talons, the turian lifts my right hand by its thumb. He wants me watching when he breaks it. Baring his teeth, he bends the digit back slowly. Dull pain spreads from my thumb to my wrist, sharpens the further back he pulls. My heart trips and stutters. I'm lightheaded. All I can do is scratch at the hand cutting off my oxygen supply. On any other alien, scratching or biting might have worked, but my nails can't damage the turian's hard carapace. Something in my thumb clicks and pain spikes up my arm. Everything goes out of focus except the turian's face. The last things I'll see are the white colony markings covering each of his face plates, his hateful, blue eyes—

Eyes.

I jab my fingers into one of the turian's deep set sockets. What feels like a small, peeled grape squishes under my fingertips. Neck twisting, the alien releases my neck. He still has my thumb. My left hand slips from his face when he thrashes his head, but I catch hold of his nearest mandible and pull. Tendons holding the delicate appendage to his face tear. My thumb is free. Staggering to the left, the turian nurses the side of his face and howls. A surge of bodies heading away from C-Sec's buzzing Stingers envelops him. I wiggle my thumb. It's stiff but unbroken. Any cuts I have from the aperitif tube are superficial. While I inventory my battle-scars, the crowd reminds me why standing still too long in the midst of a contained stampede is fucking stupid.

The same wave of bodies that devoured my turian attacker bowls me over. I'm caught in a tangle of arms and legs, buoyed along on the crowd's current. I fight them. They're all headed for the Shadow Lounge's entrance—also the cabaret's main exit—which is already dammed with panicked aliens and C-Sec officers ready to stun anyone in their way. Elbowing and kicking, I free myself from the herd and pitch into a clear space near the bar.

Everyone's massed at the entrance to the Shadow Lounge or at the cabaret's two emergency exits. There's a salarian at my feet and a human woman near one of the booths. Neither moves. I hug myself and back towards the bar. I can hide in the octagonal pen until C-Sec clears the club.

Ampliflies zip over the crowd. The insectoid drones warn club-goers away from the exits. Their robot voices alert everyone that C-Sec is authorized to use their Stingers on anyone who does not comply. I've seen the kinetic batons in action. The first officers to arrive used them on anyone who got close, but their numbers were too few to bring order to the riot. Judging by the blue flashes and electric sizzles flaring at the lounge's entrance, backup has arrived en force.

An incoming battalion of C-Sec riot troops lets loose with their Stingers and the crowd floods away from the cabaret's main exit. I stumbled for the bar, but am quickly surrounded. A salarian clips me as he flees to an emergency exit. We ricochet off each other like opposing particles. I end up on my hands and knees. The salarian tumbles and rolls to his feet, his stride unfaltering. Boot heels and high heels come down all around me before I can get up. I curl into a ball and cover my head, praying the crowd passes without trampling me. Every time a footfall lands too near my body, I twitch, but for the first few seconds I'm safe. Then someone trips over me.

A boot slams into my abdomen. I wail. The kick rolls me onto my back and I see an asari casual hostess topple. She lands across me. The weight of her body knocks me breathless. Our collision sets off a domino effect of trips and tumbles. We're soon at the bottom of a dog pile.

Writhing bodies smother me. Pounding feet vibrate the floor. Shrieks and crackling reports break over muffled shouting. I try wriggling from the pile. I can't budge. Can't breathe. Someone moans.

The unbearable weight squishing me into the carpet lessens. Bodies shift above me. Roving spots from the satellite stage shine in my eyes. I squint, gasp. Cool air fills my lungs.

Figures stand over me. One of them hauls up the casual hostess draped over my middle. Disorientation passes and I see that a helmeted C-Sec officer grips the asari's arm. Barked commands radio over the officer's headgear, but the stream of humans and aliens whipping about us distracts the hostess. Her eyes are wide and wild with fear and she slips the officer's grasp, tears off like a spooked pony. A pair of ampliflies descends. Their synthetic voices demand she halt. Screaming, the asari swats at them. She makes it two more steps before the helmeted officer opens fire with his, or her, Stinger.

A violet tangle of sparking energy shoots from the end of the officer's baton. It hits the hostess between her shoulder blades. She pitches forward and hits the ground. Shimmering energy washes her body. She's motionless. Ampliflies alight on her chest, torso, and legs. Centipede-like appendages unfurl from their metallic thoraxes and embrace her. With their cargo secure they take off and airlift the stunned hostess out of the fray.

I bolt upright, eager to be off the floor where I could be easily crushed again. The business end of a Stinger meets me halfway to my feet. The helmeted officer sticks the baton in my face. Whatever the C-Sec trooper shouts at me is incomprehensible. There's a malfunction with his or her—the officer's slight build could belong to a human man or woman—helmet radio. Feedback and white noise blares from the headgear's speaker. I put my hands up and get on my knees. This isn't what Officer Malfunction wants. The cacophony spewing from the helmet gets louder, faster. My focus is on the brandished Stinger. The weapon waves in front of my face until the officer lunges forward and the baton connects with my cheek.

The blow shocks me more than it hurts. I cup my hand over my stinging skin and stare dumbly at Officer Malfunction who looms over me. The Stinger's tip fluoresces. Humming emanates from the weapon. This is it. If I keep my place, I'll be shot. If I run, I'll be shot in the back. Squeezing my eyes shut, I brace for the hit.

Hands hook under my arms. I'm lifted. Opening my eyes, I find Officer Malfunction throwing a fit. Another officer has me in a stronghold. The shape of the interloper's helmet gives away his turian heritage. Am I being rescued? Arrested? Officer Malfunction doesn't take this interference well. Aimed at us, the C-Sec trooper's drawn Stinger flares. Wild energy snaps from its tip. The turian officer holding me whips around and shields me from the blast. The impact jolts us forward. We go to our knees. Blue incandescence capsules us. A kinetic barrier generated by the turian's hardsuit absorbs most of the Stinger's discharge. Air around us smells of ozone. Charged atmosphere tickles my skin.

Gripping my arm, the turian officer drags me up. He starts for the bar—my original plan—when Officer Malfunction goes sailing overhead. Iridescent energy swathes and suspends the trooper's body in mid air. The officer travels above the pandemonium like an oversized dust mote. When the gravity defying force dissipates, Officer Malfunction crashes atop a table and lands in a heap with it and a few chairs.

"Who the hell got authorization for biotics?" The turian at my side asks himself. His helmet radio distorts his dual vocals. He's so focused on the spent biotic display that he doesn't notice the disastrous maneuver going down on our left.

A squad of officers surround an enraged krogan. It's not Zargt. This krogan wears a blood-red hardsuit not a tuxedo. Most of the officers keep their distance, but one of them, a turian, goes in with his Stinger ablaze. At close range, the krogan's kinetic barrier, if his hardsuit's equipped with one, won't activate. He takes all of the blast. Unfortunately, the incapacitating discharge isn't enough to bring the massive alien down. It just pisses him off.

Throwing back his head, the krogan roars. He charges through the surrounding officers, his battering-ram body catapulting them almost halfway across the cabaret. Clearing the squad doesn't slow him down. Anything and anyone in his path gets mowed down, crushed underfoot. Me and the turian are right in front of him.

For such big brutes krogan are nightmarishly fast over short distances. A second elapses between the roar and oh-shit-we're-dead. By the time I'm fighting out of the turian's grip and he's finally noticed the two ton lizard bearing down on us it's already too late.

The krogran hurtles towards us. My mouth opens. The turian squeezes my arm. The breath he takes hisses over his helmet radio. A gust of air blows at our backs. Wind whips my hair.

A blue flash blinds me.

I'm deafened by a sonic boom, knocked flat by a concussive wave. I land next to the turian. Like overturned, dazed crabs, we thrash our arms and legs to right ourselves. I'm up first. I rub my eyes, astounded I'm not a stain on the carpet. A dome of biotic energy encases us. The krogan's on the other side, K.O.'d by the force of his collision with the dark energy field.

"Hey there, girl."

I turn. Shia stands at the center of the dome. Shimmering flame engulfs each of her outstretched hands. Her arms tremble and sweat mists her face. A quarian woman stands on her right, the same woman from the brawl. She carries her battered companion over her shoulders. The quarian man's dead weight makes her legs wobble and she genuflects.

"How you holding up?" The asari asks and winks.

* * *

_Author's Note: Hey guys, I know I keep a fairly regular Monday morning post schedule, but I will likely not post on 10/1/2012 since I'll be on vacation. I'm trying for a Thursday or Friday update. Might not happen. If it doesn't, the next chapter will be on 10/8/2012._


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: I Won't Get Caught Up And Brought Up On Charges For None Of Y'all**

I'm not thinking. I'm just relieved. My arms go around Shia's neck. The asari grunts. All her muscles strain.

"Glad to see you too, Neve, but I'm doing some heavy lifting here."

"Ah." I let go and back away, rubbing my hands on my thighs.

The quarian woman eases her battered companion from her shoulders. Miraculously, the quarian man breathes. His face is visible through his busted mask. Grayish skin stretches over long, narrow features and high cheekbones. Swelling puffs the flesh across the bridge of his nose and around his eyes. Blood crusts his split lips. Black bruises splotch every inch of visible skin. Wet rasping comes from his open mouth. Red stains his teeth. Though his eyes are swollen shut, he must perceive the play of light over his face when my shadow falls over him. He lifts his arm towards me, his three fingered hand grasping the empty air. Stooping, I reach for him. The quarian woman leaps up and smacks away my hand.

"Don't touch him!" The enviro-suit makes her voice hollow like she hollers into a tin can. Her accent elongates her vowels. That she's slighter and shorter than me doesn't stop her from crowding me with her body. Before she puts her hands on me, the helmeted turian officer comes between us.

"Back off," he says, driving the quarian woman back with a hand to her shoulder. "She was trying to help."

The quarian woman shrugs off the C-Sec officer's hold. "Her _helping_ could kill him." To me she says, "Haven't you ever heard of germs? Contaminants?" She mutters as she returns to her comrade's side. I don't get all of it, but I definitely hear the words "stupid," "entitled," and "humans."

Babbled apologies come from my mouth. The turian interrupts.

"Don't both—"

His helmet radio squeals and he shakes his head. A couple of twists to his head piece releases the safety catches fastening his helmet to his hardsuit. Shedding the protective gear, he tucks it under his arm.

"At the moment, I think apologies are wasted on her," Dakan says.

My body sways in his direction. I want to touch him. Instead, I clasp my hands behind my back, cock my head.

"Wherever you go trouble follows," I say.

"I could say the same for you." Dakan turns to Shia. "You need to drop this field." He gestures at the energy dome shielding us from the club's turmoil.

This snaps the quarian woman out of her preoccupation with her fading companion. "You can't."

"I won't," Shia says, though I don't know how long the asari can maintain such an impressive biotic feat.

All asari are natural biotics. Harnessing and directing dark energy requires an enormous degree of physical and mental control. Shia explained to me once that asari physiology, the way they can synchronize their nervous systems with other species, aides their biotic mastery, but I never understood how someone could be born biotic. Humans and species other than asari need prolonged exposure to element zero to develop the eezo nodules that generate mass effect fields. How would an asari develop the nodes in utero without tampering? There's probably a scientific paper on the topic somewhere on the extranet. Regardless of how an organic inherits biotic ability, exercising it is a tremendous strain even for someone with as much natural talent and practiced skill as Shia.

"You should," Dakan says to the asari and quarian. "Unless you're a C-Sec licensed biotic, throwing around this much dark energy is illegal."

Figures, C-Sec officers, swarm around our dome. They shout through the barrier, demand we turn ourselves in. When we don't immediately comply, they test the strength of the dome with their Stingers. Sweat drops off Shia's chin like water from a leaky tap, but she grits her teeth and holds strong.

"Listen to them," Dakan says. "The ampliflies already have a record of your assault on a C-Sec officer."

I gulp and wonder what footage the ampliflies have of me.

Shia's dark eyes flash. "You mean the one ready to blast the both of you into oblivion? The one I saw beating a stunned asari?"

"Do you really think any of them," Dakan waves at the officers surrounding the dome's perimeter, "care about that right now? There's no way out of an arrest. Comply. The council review of the footage will go better for you in the long run. Keep this up and that C-Sec officer will slide."

The quarian woman must sense a crack in Shia's resolve. She pipes up.

"Don't do it. This shield is the only thing keeping Joliil alive. If you drop it and they converge on us—"

"But they're all in hardsuits and helmets," I offer. "Won't that protect him?"

The quarian woman runs her hands over Joliil's heaving chest. The light at the mouth of her face mask dims. "He needs medical attention. We can get to a clinic this way."

Shia doesn't look so sure.

"There are med teams staged in front of the club," Dakan says. "I can get him there if we act now."

The patterned kerchief draping the quarian woman's face mask creases when she inclines her head towards Dakan. "You have a radio in your helmet don't you? Can't you tell them we have wounded?"

"Not with this dome up. The mass effect fields interfere with my equipment." Reaching inside his helmet, Dakan adjusts an interior control. The radio embedded in his mouth guard whines and shrieks with feedback. "See?"

Shoulders wilted, the quarian woman huffs and caresses Joliil's brow. Breath rattles in his throat. He leans into her touch.

"Trust me?" Dakan asks.

There's a pause, then the quarian woman says, "Alright."

Dakan nods at Shia. The asari licks her lips. Her eyes roll white and her lids flutter. Finger by finger, she closes her fists, extinguishing the blue flame engulfing her hands. When those lights go out Shia's head goes back and the dome evaporates.

Hands stretched overhead, Dakan hollers over the din of thirty C-Sec officers. They ignore him. Six of them pounce on Shia and the quarian pair. Their Stingers are sheathed. Shia does not fight when they twist her arms behind her back. Yellow kinetic bands link her wrists. A C-Sec officer drives her forward, prodding her between her shoulder blades with an inactive Stinger. Another three officers tear the quarian woman from Joliil. She unleashes a slew of curses in her own language as C-Sec descends on her failing comrade. Dakan tries to intervene. Someone grabs me from behind when I try to follow. My arms are wrenched behind my back. Turian voices, human voices, blare in my ears.

"Get on your knees! On your knees!"

I'm in an awkward crouch when Dakan calls off the officers. It takes a minute for them to understand him. Without his helmet radio, he doesn't have the benefit of volume. The troop we're mired in gets the message when Dakan flashes his holo badge. He must be higher rank than riot control. I'm freed and Dakan helps me up, gathers me to him, and hustles us out of the cabaret. I thrash in his arms.

"Wait! No! Where are they taking Shia?"

Dakan doesn't let go and doesn't stop moving. "To the closest holding cell."

"She didn't do anything wrong. They can't arrest her. Make them stop."

"I can't."

I twist around, trying to face him. "You got me out."

"Because they think I'm arresting you. Unless you want the cell next to hers we have to be quick."

Part of me screams for a show of solidarity. Shia protected the quarians and she saved me and Dakan from being trampled by an enraged krogan and she's being punished for it. The quarians got attacked and now one of them is arrested for defending herself and her friend. It's not right. I should be with them. Then the other part of me, the stronger part, cuts in. If I'm in a cell I can't work. I'll miss Dalessia's client go-sees, forfeit my temp contract. My mom won't get her money. My head sags. I let Dakan lead me out of the club.

Wounded humans and aliens await treatment in the Shadow Lounge. A team of emergency responders tears passed us. They push a wheeled pod into the cabaret. Trotting alongside the pod, a salarian in med whites calls in a report to CresCare, the nearest full service hospital.

"Clean room required. Exposed quarian male. Severe cranial trauma. Team in transit."

Disheveled club patrons line the avenue outside. There are queues in front of the many medical up-carts parked around the club's exterior. Where there aren't treatment lines, aliens and humans sit, legs splayed and wrists cuffed, and await transport to holding cells. Ampliflies hover over each arrest's head. When activated, the insectoid drones project the culprit's crime in a shower of holographic light. Dakan nudges me into one of the treatment lines and stands to the side, surveying the activity. There's nothing wrong with me, so I ease out of the queue. Dakan shoos me back in place.

"Get checked out," he says. "You've got some cuts and, if I'm not mistaken, that's turian blood all over you. If any of that's in your system you'll get sick."

He's right and I can't get sick with my schedule. Registered first responders administer I-pacs and dispense medi-gel on the scene. They're not trainees like Evie. No one will make me go to a clinic.

At my acquiescence Dakan nods his approval and says, "If I'm not back when you're finished wait for me here. I'm going to see what I can do about your friend and that quarian woman."

* * *

Keepers scuttled over debris the rioters left behind. The silent aliens, the sole race native to the Citadel, salvaged what they could from the rubble and already tinkered with structural repairs. Black eyes sparkled in their worm-like heads. Jointed, spider legs carried them over terrain covered with broken glass, shattered furniture, and twisted metal. Dakan found the quarian woman and Neve's asari friend in the cabaret. They sat amidst delirious club goers recovering from Stinger blasts. A pair of asari in med whites took vitals from stun victims. On his way to the officer in charge, Dakan passed the quarian woman. She tossed her head, cursed him. He couldn't blame her. He'd asked for her trust and he'd failed her. There'd been too many officers to shout over or hold back. He meant to help her now if he could.

The head officer used the bar as her base of operations. One by one she summoned each amplifly under her command and reviewed its feed cache. From the recordings and her subordinate officers' debriefs, she compiled her report. The human woman didn't look up from her datapad when Dakan addressed her.

"The quarian under your charge should be released."

The woman laughed. Sweat plastered her short, black hair to her scalp. "Should she? By whose authority?"

"What's her violation?"

A poor play. Dakan had to make it. The head officer would know no authority backed his request, but if he lied she could check the validity of his claim from her omni-tool. His only option at this point was to convince her that the severity of the quarian's violation wasn't worth the paperwork and manpower.

The woman paged up on her datapad. "Zenna Larati vas Nerai. She and her partner Joliil Kon vas Nerai broke the quarian curfew instituted after ANN's report on Saren. Their presence at Shadow Matter incited widespread violence."

"And the Alliance officers and turian civilians who attacked them?"

The back up call the first responders had sent out had included that information.

"The Alliance officers will face Alliance justice. We already have three of the turians in holding. No one's getting special treatment. That includes your quarian."

"And the asari there?" Dakan indicated Shia who appeared very bored by the proceedings.

"Yashia Sharesh." The head officer rattled off Shia's violations. "Assault of a C-Sec officer and obstruction of justice. Her people have already contacted Pallin. I doubt she'll be in holding more than 24 hours."

She waved Dakan along with her datapad. He respected her dismissal and rooted out the stairs to Shadow Matter's upper level. With his omni-tool he located Neve's purse. The bug he'd planted produced a homing signal. Gathering her things, he exited the club and met his dancer outside.

Reporters and their campanions captured what footage they could from the scene's perimeter. Kinetic tape demarcated the "do not cross" line. Patrol officers handled any infractions which occurred whenever a celebrity or dancer came up in the treatment queue. The dancers' skimpy costumes caused a great deal of campanion shuffling. Neve's backside was on full display when her turn came. Dakan had nothing to offer for cover. In the club's confines, the outfits didn't seem so skeevy. Out here though…Once the medical team turned her loose he called her over. He blocked what he could of her with his body from the ever present campanions.

They took a skycar to Shalta Ward. Besides the thanks Neve gave Dakan for her purse and the stint of cursing when she received word from her boss that the club would be closed for at least a week, she was quiet until they trod Shalta-A.

"Where are they taking Shia?" She asked, ignoring the cat calls from a few humans seated around a food kiosk.

"She's asari, so probably the Zakera point hub."

"I want to see her."

"She'll be out before you can negotiate a visitation window. It's the quarian you should worry about."

"She's not my friend." Neve bit her bottom lip as soon as she said the words. She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Can they really hold her? She didn't start that fight."

Dakan caught Neve's arm and steered her out of the path of an oncoming sales roamer blinded by her own orbit ads. "All they really have on the quarian and her friend, if he survives, is a curfew violation. Security and amplifly footage should strengthen their case. If the council review is truly impartial, they won't serve any time."

"Ampliflies get good coverage?" Neve's voice was so soft Dakan almost lost her question in the Ward's noise.

"Very good. They're programmed to hone in on the most activity. Their feeds are broadcast to all officers linked into the R1 system. We can literally see where we need to converge on the oc-screens in our helmets. The footage is used in any hearings to dismiss or verify charges. Very convenient."

Neve stared at her feet. Her lips pressed together until they whitened.

"You worried about something?" Dakan asked.

A kinetic ad for a subscription based omni-tool game splashed yellow and green over the dancer's face. The colors shone off the shiny garment she wore too.

"I got in a fight," Neve said, then after a beat, "with a turian."

That explained the turian blood all over her.

"Did you start it?"

"No."

As they crossed over into the residential district, Dakan got the full story. On the steps to Neve's complex, he gave his judgment.

"There won't be any charges."

Dakan almost collided with Neve when she whipped around. Her bag knocked his side and one of his hardsuit's side compartments clicked open.

"How can you be sure?" She asked.

Repositioning himself on a lower step, Dakan said, "That turian won't open his mouth because he'd have to admit defeat to a human to have charges brought against you." He counted off subsequent reasons on his talons. "If the ampliflies captured the altercation, any footage made public would have to be approved by Executor Pallin. After Saren, any negative documentation of turians will be suppressed for at least half a year if our councilor and his sub-committees can help it. And if the footage did go public in a hearing, from what you've told me you defended yourself. You haven't violated Citadel law."

"That quarian woman defended herself and she's in jail."

Dakan hitched himself against the railing. "It's different. It's not right, but it's different."

Rounding away from him, Neve trudged up the stairs. She called over her shoulder. "And you? What do you think?"

"Anyone using a position of power to destroy instead of defend deserves what they get. That includes members of my species."

"Does that also include abusive C-Sec officers?" With an interesting series of contortions, Neve extracted her arm from her gloved sleeve and pressed her thumb to the scanner lock on her door.

"If you mean the officer who shot at us, then yes, it does. It's just harder for me to admit. I want the organization I serve to be good."

Neve's door stuck at the halfway point. It started closing and she wedged her body in the gap. Before the reinforced versaplast crushed her, Dakan caught it and forced it open.

"Thank you," Neve said, huffing. "No organization is perfect." She looked him up and down and smiled. "But as long as good people work for them there's hope."

Dakan moved his hand away from the door cautiously. It stayed open. "I don't know what's good, or right, anymore."

Stepping from the entrance to her apartment, Neve came close to Dakan. She brought her arms around his neck. She touched her forehead to his jaw.

"I think you're good," she whispered.

Dakan clenched his teeth as he brought his hands to her waist. This had to stop. It was one or the other: case pawn or prospective mate. He couldn't quite reach her purse. Maybe if he bent down, he could retrieve the bug without tipping her off. Leaning into her, he let his hands skim her backside as she tipped up her head.

From his popped side compartment, something tumbled and _clack-clack-clacked_ across the floor. Neve disentangled herself from their embrace and crouched. She pinched an amber bottle between her thumb and index finger. Dakan swallowed and danced from foot to foot as Neve read the bottle's label.

"What's Balixir?" She asked.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: I Just Want Your Extra Time And Your…..Kiss**

"Is this what I think it is?"

I'm reading the instructions on the Balixir bottle. A flash of light makes me blink. Dangling from Dakan's side compartment is a silvery strip. It sways when he fidgets, catches the light from the blast graffiti emblazoned on my complex's outer wall. Dakan speaks, but I don't catch it. I nab the gleaming strip hanging from his hardsuit's pocket and rub my thumb over the first foil packet in a long chain. I laugh.

"Really, it's not what you think," Dakan says. He holds up his hands defensively.

"No?" I get up and wave the bottle in his face. "This is for exchanging fluids with species of disparate amino acid bases. And these," I give him a teasing slap with the condoms, "are for fucking without fear." Poking his hardsuit's chest plate, I say, "You were banking on getting laid tonight."

Dakan squeezes the bridge of his nose. "No. These—" His head slashes right and his mandibles twitch. "A friend gave them to me. They're a bad joke."

"I'm a joke now?"

Regarding me for a moment, Dakan says, "What makes you think it was made at your expense?"

There's a sore tugging near my heart I pretend I don't feel. Turian features are so static I can't tell if he's joking or not. I play off his barb as though he is. My hand goes over my heart—the condom strip trails down my chest—and I make a pouty face.

"There's someone else?" My performance inspires Dakan to drop his act.

"No, no, no. I don't know any other human females personally besides you. My friend knows I've been frequenting Shadow Matter. Figured that was because of one of the dancers. There aren't any turian or quarian performers at the club, so he purchased the interspecies aides to get a rise out of me."

"Did it?" I ask as I unscrew the eyedropper cap off the Balixir. Wafting it under my nose, I take a whiff; teatree and a medicinal sharpness that leaves my sinuses cold and clear.

"No," he says, but I think I detect stress in his sub-vocals. "Takes more than a childish prank to get a rise out of me."

"Really?"

The rubber nipple on the Balixir cap squishes between my fingertips. Clear liquid fills the glass eyedropper. Opening my mouth, I dispense the fluid onto my tongue. It's cold and then warm. My lips and the insides of my cheeks tingle. I cap the Balixir, drop the bottle and condoms and place my hands on both sides of Dakan's face. Biotic energy still clings to us. When I touch him it discharges, zapping both of us. We jump and nervous laughter escapes us.

Dakan's carapace plates are smooth and hard under my palms like the polished insides of a conch toasted by the sun. He tugs back a little, then relaxes. Mandibles flare outward. Their tips graze the insides of my wrists. On tip toe, I crane my neck and put my mouth on his. A startled breath hisses through the turian's nose and mouth.

The plates armoring Dakan's face aren't pliable. My lips press against his unyielding jaw. The scent of o-zone and hardsuit oil comes off him. His jaws part. Warm breath glances my face. I shiver when he kisses me back, his tongue flicking tentatively into my mouth. This wet flesh isn't armored. His tongue is soft, but not like mine. It's rougher, thinner. Still feels good. Arousal heats my belly, makes my insides flutter. I grab hold of his mandibles and pull him closer, push my tongue further into his mouth. Taloned hands wrap about my wrists, squeeze.

Dakan wants more.

So, I stop.

I untwine from the turian and retreat. Dakan is frozen. His hands circle the air where my wrists used to be and his mouth yearns for mine. Amber eyes blink open.

"How's that for getting a rise out of you?" I ask. "Or does it take more than that?"

Stooping, Dakan collects the Balixir and condoms I dropped. "If I say 'no' does that mean we'll stop?"

I step backwards into my apartment. "Why don't you come inside?"

* * *

Cushioned headphones cupped Sam's ears. A woman's thready voice whispered to him. The vid message he extracted from Neve's inbox confirmed what he already knew: the dancer was a golddigger and likely doser descended from a matriarchal line of golddiggers and dosers. The burned out wretch on his interface's active pane was Neve's mother.

After Sam had repaired Dakan's sig-breaker program, he'd returned to his own system and had ported into the detective's machine. His sieve program hadn't dredged much from the Citadel's residential archives other than Neve's re-location and occupation records. She'd never had trouble with C-Sec, except for the Shalta incident, but that didn't mean she had nothing to hide. This vid gave him leads to follow on Earth. A cursory check of the human homeworld's birth records confirmed a Lena Hopenhower as one half of the dancer's biological parentage. No father was listed on the birth certificate. Where had the surname "Cezetti" come from?

Retrieving off-Citadel data didn't require much more than another tailored sieve program, but turnaround wouldn't be short. Broad key words attached to the program like "Hopenhower" or "Cezetti" or "solicitation" would bring him hundreds of thousands of return files. Writing another program to judge the relevance of each record would take him just as long as sorting through the documentation himself. Was nailing down Neve's history worth all that effort?

Sam's finger hovered over the execute icon in his working systems window. The program construction window hung below the intranet pane where Neve's mom continued her guilt trip. How would his life have been different if a friend—he'd had none he'd confided in at the time—had stepped in before he'd given his credit ID to a vidscort he'd grown obsessed with? He snatched the headphones from his head and winced when a few hairs tore from his scalp. The great mechanical breathing of the Networks cave, the purr and click of two hundred terminal power towers, the burble of the coolant tubes, surrounded him.

Curiosity drove Sam to vid chats. He got along well enough with his co-workers, but he felt more himself on the extranet. The tech barrier gave him courage he couldn't conjure IRL. Stellar Vid Services matched him with Angela. During their two hundred credit, hour long chats, the illusion of a relationship developed. He thought he'd done something right because after a month of paid vid sessions, Angela contacted him independent of her agency. In retrospect, he should have been creeped out that the woman tracked him down, but he wasn't. She was beautiful and he was flattered. For a long time he thought he was in love. Even after she drained his credit account and vanished.

_Idiot. Fucking idiot._

Sam clenched his fist so hard his knuckles cracked. He executed his new sieve program and leaned back in his chair. When the anger part of his grief stages hit, hunting Angela down was impossible. He'd waited too long. Whatever rage remained had burnt itself out into cynicism. This unofficial investigation of Neve kindled long dormant feelings. His back teeth squeaked as they ground over each other.

Before Lena Cezetti's vid message queued up again Sam closed the file. Rummaging through the rest of Dakan's documentation on Neve, he discovered the audio and transcription feeds from the phantome crystal surveillance chip the turian had planted. Being a good friend, and a thorough Networks tech, Sam checked the stability of the bug's transmission. He accessed the transcription feed first.

The document loaded and jumped down to the auto-populating text scrolling across the pane. There were already a hundred pages worth of bracketed background noise and quoted conversation. The surveillance chip appeared stable. Sam read a few lines of text close to the end of the document. His brows went up and he stretched his hands behind his head, whistled.

"Man, Dakan, I hope you know what you're doing."

* * *

The steady rush of shower spray filled the, somewhat cleaner, apartment. Water jetting against tile concealed the sound of Dakan pawing in Neve's purse. All the sundries stuffed inside he scooped out on her island's fac-stone countertop next to an open case filled with cosmetics. Running his fingers over the satchel's lining, he found the tear he'd made and poked a talon into the hole, fishing for the phantome chip. He couldn't reach it. When he turned the bag upside down and shook it, the miniscule device rattled inside the leather and fabric like a moth's wing beating against glass.

_If you remove the bug, how will you know if she's in danger? How can you protect her if you don't know?_

Dakan dropped Neve's purse on the countertop. The question was moot because he couldn't get the bug out of the bag. Cramming everything he'd dredged out back inside, he zipped the main compartment shut and shoved away the sack. Steam from the shower saturated the tiny apartment. Neve's powdery, flowery fragrance perfumed the sultry air. Yawning, Dakan situated himself on one of the high chairs surrounding the raised island. The Balixir and condoms he took from his hardsuit and set on the countertop. Crushed at the bottom of his side compartment was the tipper package. Crumpled cardboard and plastic crinkled when he placed the rubber talon gloves beside the other items Sam had procured. With his hardsuit's pocket emptied of prophylactics, the last object inside had room to roll around. It struck the interior of the versaplast compartment, cracking like two marbles against each other.

_Ah, the micro tube cam._

Dakan had put in a request for the mini vid recorder when he'd requested the bug and the sig-breaker syringe. He'd meant to plant it in Neve's apartment. The cam's lacquered finish shone under the apartment's overheads. A star of light flashed off its lense.

"What you got there?"

The Citadel had an abundance of elevators. Dakan rode at least three everyday. Whenever the lifts stopped, the momentary weightlessness always made his stomach float. That's how he felt when Neve came up behind him. The tube cam plopped into the top drawer of the open makeup case. It blended nicely with the rest of the dancer's cosmetic artifacts. Dakan plucked another black tube from the drawer.

"Intrigued by your, ah…"

"That's lipstick," Neve said. She'd emerged from the shower with a towel banded about her body.

"Right." Dakan positioned the lipstick upright on the countertop.

The roar of the full body dryer should have been his tip off to conclude his snooping, but Neve hadn't used it. Damp hair she'd secured atop her head in a tight bun. Her bangs were pinned back as well. The severe style showcased her long, bare neck on which he fixated. Fresh faced and without any adornment or the forgiving low light of the club, she captivated him. Gripping the front of her terrycloth tunic, she twirled.

"No more blood."

"And your cut?" Dakan tapped his hardsuit's chest plate.

"Oh." Neve opened her towel, revealing her newly bandaged chest and…everything else.

A coughing fit seized Dakan and he bowed his head, inspected his boots. How long had it been since he'd performed hardsuit maintenance? So many scratches and scuffs and was that a hairline crack on his shin bracer? Such negligence was inexcusable.

Pink manicured toes met the cloven tips of his shoes. A hand came under his chin and raised his head. Neve had re-wrapped herself in the textured cloth. Dakan expelled his held breath.

"Have you ever been with a human?" Neve asked.

Dakan scratched the underside of his fringe. "No."

"What made you want to start?" Neve padded to the couch opposite the island. Manipulating the control panel set into the wall, she transformed her sofa. Humming motors propelled its cushion outward. A bed blocked over the clear space at the center of the room. She unzipped one of the smaller pillows jumbled at the head of the futon and upended it. A few shakes of the pillowcase dumped a wadded blanket onto the mattress.

"You sound experienced." Dakan didn't know how to answer her question, so he countered with one of his own. "You've been with other turians?"

A gusty laugh raised Neve's chest. "I've never fucked an alien and I've never heard anyone dodge a question so poorly."

"I'm not my usual self around you. Maybe that's why I'm dipping my talons into the interspecies pool."

"It's my fault, then?"

"I like that reasoning. Absolves me of any responsibility."

Neve settled on the end of the bed, crossed her legs, and narrowed her eyes. "I thought turians were all about responsibility."

"Our society is structured around it, but sometimes it's nice to take a break and try something different. Is that what you like about turians? That we're responsible?"

Toeing a piece of clothing trapped under her extended bed, Neve said, "I don't like turians. I like you."

The statement was a fist in his gut. Dakan shifted in his seat.

"I like you too." Why he did was incomprehensible, but it was true. "I'd like to show you how much."

A sly smile made Neve's expression impish. "Do you even know what to do?"

"I've seen a few vids." Dakan rose, swept the turian sex aides into his open hand, then faced Neve. "I think I can wing it."

One of the dancer's dark brows hooked up. "So, come over here and show me."

Dakan thanked the spirits for all those nights spent alone watching deviant porn.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: I Like You So Much Better When You're Naked**

When Dakan meets me at the end of the bed, I push myself back so my feet don't touch the floor. The turian flings the condoms and Balixir and another mangled package onto the mattress. Before I reach the headboard he captures my ankle and drags me towards him. I squeal and laugh, twist over and try to latch onto the covers, playing at resistance. My curled fingertips rake the sheets and make a high _ziiiiiiip_ noise. The towel I wear comes over my hips and bunches at my waist. My bare butt rests on the edge of the bed.

Dakan holds my right leg aloft. With my left foot I kick at his hand. My other ankle is caught and my legs are brought together. The turian inspects my soles. I wriggle and my towel flops open.

"Not my feet!"

Resting his chin on my heels, Dakan peers down at me. This time he doesn't shy away from my unveiled body.

"Don't like them touched?" He asks.

I tug the towel from beneath me and say, "Touch all you want." The terrycloth goes over the side of the bed. "Just don't look at them."

"Why?"

I make a face at the sheets. "They're ugly."

Dancer's feet are rank, especially ballerinas' feet. It's because we're so hard on them. All that spinning and stomping and going up on your toes toughens them quick. I've had compound blisters, split toenails, and every sort of fungus. The wear and tear has left me with freak feet, the bottoms of which are solid callus. They're a sensitive point. I don't like anyone knowing I have ugly parts. That goes double for the turian I want to fuck. I try shaking out of his hold.

Dakan adjusts his grip. "Now, wait a minute. I can't believe you have any ugly parts and if you do I have to see them. It'll do wonders for my self esteem."

His gaze traces the contours of my insteps. Prickly heat spreads from my neck to my hairline. Amber eyes meet mine.

"Your feet aren't ugly," Dakan says. "They're well used, that's all. Strong."

"Then can I have them back?"

One leg is liberated. Dakan keeps the other. The blue hardsuit he wears blunts his talons. When he scores the center of my sole with one of them there's no pain. A delicious sensation spreads throughout my foot, travels up my calf to my thigh, and pulses between my legs. I'm reaching for my sex when Dakan bites me. I gasp. Teeth cradle the sensitive curve of my instep. They inflict enough pressure to skirt the edge of pleasure and pain. My eyes roll back. I groan and rub my aching clit.

"That bad, huh?" Dakan massages the spot he bit with the side of his talon. "Sure I can't have the other one back?"

The foot stuff has me hot, but I'm not a total convert. I scrunch my face into a playful scowl and move my free leg out of arms reach. The movement spreads me before Dakan and his attention strays from my foot.

I'm wet. Air against my open slit is cold. Despite my physical insecurities, Dakan's teasing turns me on. He repositions my leg on his shoulder and lets a hand fall to my sex where it hovers. Our eyes meet. The look he gives me asks for a permission I grant.

Dakan trails one finger down the length of my slit. My hips buck in response. At my entrance he pauses, tests the tiny opening with a careful fingertip, then slowly penetrates me. A high little moan slips from my parted lips. I close my eyes, sink onto the cool sheets. Since my career has been my focus, I've neglected sex. I forgot how much better it is with another person. Pleasure slows my thoughts, makes me languid. I let Dakan pump his finger a few times before I open my eyes. Our point of contact and the vanishing act his finger performs galvanizes him. I lift my leg from his shoulder, toe his chest plate.

"Hey, Tiger, might be better for you with that armor off."

That he's wearing a hardsuit seems to shock Dakan. When he speaks his primary vocals are raspier than usual. "Right. Of course." He swallows and eases out of me.

I grunt my displeasure at my emptiness. My body is unsatisfied. All my charged nerves scream for stimulation. As I writhe, trapping both hands between my thighs, Dakan strips at the foot of the bed.

Piece by piece, the hardsuit comes off. Each segment clanks on the floor. The clinging sobrane skinsuit that cushions Dakan's carapace from the armor peels away. I sit up and ogle the only naked turian I've ever seen.

Titling my head to the side, I say, "It still looks like you're wearing armor."

Dull green plates cover most of the turian's body. Overheads pick out the barest slivery sheen on his carapace. Some of his waist and all of his neck, the backside of which is shielded by his dorsal shell, appears supple. Lines of elastic skin streak his sides. The two strips meet at his armored groin which strikes me as problematic. Biting my lower lip, I peer up at him through my lashes.

"I don't think this will work."

"Why not?" Dakan lifts his arms, appraises himself.

With a wave at his hips, I say, "You don't have the right bits."

"Oh, that!" Turian laughter sounds like two people's synthesized mirth. While Dakan chuckles, he adjusts the plates at his groin, then gives me "ta-da" arms.

"Oh," I say, suddenly excited. "Oh."

"I guess you've never watched any vids." Dakan leans over and takes the crumpled package from the bed. Blistered plastic pops between his fingers. Rubbery, black cones come from the pack. He fits these over the talons on his hands and raptor-like feet.

"The romosims I play have interspecies options sometimes, but the sex scenes aren't explicit." The edge of the bed bows and creaks under Dakan's planted foot. "They're all shadow cuts and soft focus then a fade to black."

"Happy to show you what you've been missing." Dakan chucks the empty package onto the pile of armor at my bedside. When he bends over again for the Balixir, I capture his chin in the vee of my left hand. His strength is fifty times mine. If he wanted to he could easily free himself, but he lets me have my way.

I turn his head to the side. Mottled scar tissue patterns where his mandible tendons meet his ear and continues to the base of his throat. I run my tongue along the raised flesh. There's a low rattling in the turian's throat and he shudders.

"You get this on the job?" I whisper into his neck.

"It's an old military injury. One of my sparring partners blew off a little too much steam."

"I hope you got him back." My right hand finds the Balixir. I get traction on the cap and twist it loose, fill the eyedropper.

"You'd better believe it."

While Dakan has his mouth open, I drag his face to mine and administer the Balixir. Then I kiss him, replace the eyedropper cap. Our mouths work together. The turian's more enthusiastic since taking his medicine. He wraps one hand around the back of my neck. A capped talon runs along the diagonal tendon there. Tacky rubber from the protective sheath snags on my skin and trips along my neck. I break away, shove at him, breathless from his bruising kisses.

"You going to fuck me now or what?"

"No."

My devious smile wilts. No one's ever turned me down. Before I can sulk or argue, Dakan cuffs my ankles in his hands and yanks me to the end of the bed. My butt rests on the edge of the mattress once more, but the turian doesn't stand over me this time. He gets on his knees. My legs hook over his shoulders.

"We should kiss some more," Dakan says and buries his face between my legs.

For an interspecies virgin, Dakan sure knows his way around a human's body. He hits just the right spot. I cry out and fist my hands in the sheets. The turian's tongue is rough and slippery at the same time. And dexterous. It flutters at my clit, propelling my ecstasy higher and higher. I'm right there, right on the edge, and when Dakan pushes a blunt talon into me, I come.

Pleasure short circuits my brain. My back arches off the bed as I scream. Each climactic tremor jerks my body like a live current runs through it. I grasp the ends of Dakan's head fringe and ride out the rest of my orgasm. At the end, I collapse onto the mattress, suck in lung-fulls of air. My whole self throbs in time with my breakneck pulse. The turian lets my legs dangle off the end of my pallet and crawls over me, nipping the sensitive spot below my navel on his way.

"How am I doing?" Dakan asks.

"Not bad," I say breathlessly. My heart rate calms and, on a thoroughly satisfied exhale, I open my eyes.

Moisture glistens on Dakan's mouth. With a single finger, I stroke one of his mandibles, then draw myself up and hang over the right side of the bed. Scooping my clumped towel into one arm, I slide to the center of the bed where I sit cross-legged. I flap the towel like a matador's flag, gesturing Dakan over. On all fours he comes to me. His hands and knees make deep pits in the mattress and his shambling rocks the bed. Once he's close, I buff his face dry, discard the towel. The turian keeps crawling, his position and proximity forcing me onto my back. Arms bracket my face, bent legs pen my lower body. Dakan lowers his head to my chest, grazes the trough between my breasts with his jaws and mandibles.

"Now I'm going to fuck you," he tells me.

My sightline drops, follows the line of his barrel chest down to his groin. His cock curves out and up from his hips. Its crown almost brushes his lower abdomen. A clear bead of gleaming fluid wells from the dark slit at the center of his tip. I wet my lips.

"No," I say.

"No?"

I make eye contact with Dakan. "We still haven't kissed enough." Then I slide beneath him.

* * *

Not many turians got blowjobs. Structurally, females weren't so different from the males. They weren't as tall, their head fringes weren't as severe, and their dorsal shells were shorter. They didn't have cocks either, but their jaws were every bit as sharp as their male counterparts. Too sharp to stroke a prick without doing their partner serious injury. So, when Neve slipped beneath him, Dakan had no idea what she was about until a sheath of wet heat engulfed his most tender part.

Dakan groaned and his elbows buckled. Neve's soft lips massaged his length and her nimble tongue laved him. She sucked him down more than halfway, but she couldn't fit all of him in her mouth. Her hands took care of that. What she couldn't swallow, she pumped with her fists. Wet smacking noises spiked his excitement. Those sounds were one of his favorite features from his collection of interspecies vids. Many times his self abuse sessions never reached the actual intercourse segments. He popped when the women moaned around turian cock. And when they looked into the camera while they did it.

Dakan's head dropped between his bent arms. Neve's eyes weren't visible. The back of her head bobbed up and down. Even that visual almost broke him. Pressure built in his groin. The glands shielded by the plates there tightened.

"Stop." The words came out on a rush of breath.

Either Neve didn't hear or she ignored him because she continued her relentless sucking. When she swirled her tongue around his tip and flecked the ultra-sensitized spot at the base of his crown, he barked out a moan and drew back his hips. He hissed when his cock slipped through her lips and hands. On his knees, he stared down at her.

Color flushed her cheeks. Half-lidded gray eyes were glassy with lust. Her lips were swollen and wet from her erotic ministration. Pink nipples pebbled at the center of her small breasts. She'd left his cock slick and shiny and unbearably hard and it was a damn shame he couldn't fuck her without protection.

The condom strip had landed between the bed and Dakan's armor pile, the latex sheaths flung off the bed in the midst of their frenzied foreplay. Tearing a packet from the strip, he ripped open the foil. The thin barrier rolled over his length and he met Neve at the center of the bed.

Long legs circled Dakan's waist. Arms wrapped about his neck. Neve raised her head for a kiss. When her lips whispered over his mouth, he jerked back. He cupped her face with one hand—his palm cradled her chin—and forced her head to the sheets. Mimicking her earlier teasing, he turned her head to the side and displayed her slender neck. She didn't have any scars there, but he bit her anyway, nibbling from her clavicle to her ear. A high pitched moan broke through her panting and rewarded him when his teeth scored her lobe.

Neve guided Dakan's hips. She ground her heels into his backside, urging him lower. His cock threaded through her slit. The condom dampened some of the feeling, but couldn't diminish the heat radiating off her body. Raising her hips, she worked herself up and down his length, using him to stimulate herself.

"Now that's not right." Dakan put some space between their lower bodies and Neve let out a frustrated growl.

"Feels right to me." Since Dakan still had a firm grip on her face she couldn't look at him. His capped talons dimpled her cheeks.

"No, no, no. More kissing, I think."

"No. More. Kissing!" Neve's eyes squeezed shut as she shouted.

"Oh, alright."

Dakan released Neve's face. Repositioning his lower half, he aligned himself with her entrance and thrust himself inside. A stunted, rasping groan tore through his clenched teeth. The dancer's body constricted around him. Her passage clamped down tight on his cock. He waited a beat, concentrated on not coming. Hands caressed the sides of his face. Fingers found the tender spots under his fringe. Snarling, he shook off her hold. He captured both her wrists in one hand and held them above her head. Any more touching from her and he'd lose it before they started. Aggressiveness didn't put her off. She smiled a wicked smile and writhed beneath him, sinking herself further onto his cock.

_If that's what you want…_

Dakan's hips came back and then he drove into her. Not a sound came from Neve's mouth though her lips formed a wide "O" and her face contorted with pleasurable agony. Pumping himself in and out, he found his rhythm, made his thrusts hard and deep. Each one brought a little whimper from Neve and shook her breasts. The friction was all consuming. He wanted more.

Abandoning Neve's arms, Dakan rose and clasped her calves. He unwound the dancer's legs from his waist and held them aloft. Hands banding her ankles, he spread her wide and continued thrusting, gaze fixed at the place where their bodies met. Neve's opening swallowed him, her sex stretched around his girth. With her arms unshackled, the dancer played with herself. Two fingers went to her clit while her other hand toyed with a nipple. The sight of her, her body around him and her unabashed self pleasure, ignited his orgasm.

Dakan went rigid as he came, dimly aware of Neve's own cries beneath him. Sharp convulsions seized his groin, belly, and brain. He squeezed her ankles, held his breath, then crumpled atop her. This time when she stroked his face he let it go. Responding to her tenderness, he worked his arms under her and flipped them on their sides so they spooned. He raised her leg and drew himself out carefully then dropped his arm over her chest. Neither moved nor spoke for several minutes.

"That was 'winging it?'" Neve asked.

Dakan yawned. "You should see my rehearsed act."

"I'm sure you'll show me."

"I'll be here all week," Dakan said.

* * *

Kella is occupied at her p-interface. Vlair waits for her acknowledgement. If he interrupts she will be displeased and he doesn't want that. Yet.

Music plays from the many submerssive speakers embedded in the walls. The elegant tones of a dyano mingle with the melodious strains of a d-string siola. Vlair's head dips in time with the soft piece. The agency's overheads are dimmed. There's no competing glare off the large window to his left which overlooks the Presidium gardens below. Fabricated moonlight turns the streams threading the lower level's manicured terrain into ribbons of flashing silver. Lights from the suites on the neighboring rib wall glow like yellow stars. The head and break lights of passing skycars leave neon streaks across his vision which linger long after the cabs pass. The vehicles' hum cannot penetrate the soundproofed suite.

"How is she?" Kella asks. The brilliant p-interface retains the asari's attention.

"I assume you've seen the feeds." Vlair says. He's in front of her desk, legs spread, back straight, hands folded at the small of his back.

"I have. Was she one of the dead or wounded?"

"No."

Dark eyes give him his cue to proceed. Vlair relates all he observed of the human. He describes her allure in the aperitif tube. When he narrates the dancer's brawl with the turian, details her resourcefulness and brutal tenacity, Kella's lips curve upward.

"I lost her for a short time when I made my retreat. C-Sec was all over the place. One of their officers escorted her from the establishment."

"They arrested her?"

"She wasn't cuffed and her name isn't on the posted arrest roster."

"I see." Kella steeples her fingers in front of her face. Orange luminescence from the p-interface glints in her eyes which appear black in the low light. "Then she'll make her appointments tomorrow. You'll accompany her."

At the order, Vlair shifts his weight. Behind his back, he balls his fists until his nails cut his palms. Minor pain clears the anger darkening his thoughts. This mission, his last mission for the hanar, will soon conclude. The Compact between himself and his host race will be dissolved. Neither the hanar nor this asari will lay any claim to him.

"Neve possesses they physical talents we need, but her attitude remains in question." Kella rocks in her chair. "I need to know how she interacts with other species. If she's favorable to aliens or merely tolerates them. The go-see tomorrow should establish that."

"Is that really necessary?"

Questions, depending on Kella's mood, aren't always welcome and don't go unpunished. She stills in her chair and stares at him without speaking for several moments. Vlair believes she's disregarded him, then she surprises him with an answer.

"Acceptance of aliens will ease the joining process."

"And Udina?"

Swinging back to her interface, Kella says, "Barla Von sent me the ambassador's social schedule for the coming month. We'll have enough opportunity to arrange a liason with Neve or with an alternate candidate." She peers at him over her active pane. "Will you stay tonight?"

Entertaining Kella is not what Vlair wants. He's tired. For once, an empty bed appeals more than a warm body. His mission demands he capitulate.

"If that's your will," he says.

"It is." A pleased expression settles on the asari's features. She manipulates the icons on her light key console. "I have a few issues that need my attention. Our cell on Omega may have been compromised and they're our best resource for uncut red sand. Enel is upstairs. I'm sure she can engage you in my absence. I always find idle time passes well in her company."

The back of Vlair's head tingles. Memories suck him down like a thresher maw dragging prey into its pit.

_The asari's back curves. Dark lips part. A high note of sung ecstasy._

_ Nails rake my thighs._

_ There's weight at my hips. Slick heat surrounds my cock. My breaths are shallow. They match Enel's panting._

_ My fingertips dig into her hips. I compel her body into the rhythm that leaves me spent and sated._

_ Fingers trail down my chest._

_ She speaks._

"I won't be long," Kella says.

The memory recedes. Vlair's secondary lids shutter his eyes, then draw back. He ascends to the upstairs suite where Enel awaits him.

* * *

I'm not asleep. When my handguard rattles on my desk, it doesn't interrupt any pleasant dreams. Not that I'm not exhausted. I sit up and stretch my arms overhead, rub my achy eyes. My romp with Dakan sapped my energy, but I haven't had a bedmate in ages and this one snores. The turian occupies more than half the mattress. When he exhales, his mandibles flare. He snorts when he inhales. He sounds like a congested elcor. My handguard vibrates again. If I don't check my p-sig's inbox it'll keep going off.

Throwing off the covers, I lurch out of bed and hobble over to my desk. The handguard slips on and my omni-tool fluoresces. An extranet pane flips up and I open my p-sig. A note from Dalessia Kella triggers my new message alarm. I open the document and scream. Dakan leaps out of bed. He's startled and sleep dazed and ready for action.

"W-What's happening? What's going on?"

I hop up and down and shriek.

"I've got a go-see!"

"Go see what?"

I go to him and put my hands on his shoulders.

"I have a client audition." Cocking my head, I read the rest of the message attached to my arm. "And an appointment at Pure on the Presidium."

Dakan's head lolls sleepily. His chin drops to his chest. "When?"

I frown at the message. "In an hour."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: When I Pull Up In My Whip Bitches Wanna Talk Shit**

Roger Thursharp's at our shared balcony when I step outside. Bundled in his arms is little Roger. The baby fusses, flailing his arms over his green blanket. He spits out his pacifier and his fussing escalates into an all out tantrum. The binkie's safe because it's attached to a band around the baby's wrist. It dangles from its strap. When big Roger fumbles for the pacifier the green cap warming his son's head drops off. I pick up the downy scrap of fabric so big Roger doesn't have to bend over.

"Thanks, Neve," big Roger shouts over his son's squalling as I refit the snuggly cap to the baby's head and swing my purse behind my back. The binkie plugs little Roger's mouth and he hushes.

"What are you doing up so late, ah, early?" I ask

"I don't get shore leave from this guy." Roger bounces his son in his arms and gives him a noisy kiss on the forehead. "Allegra tells me I have you to thank for springing me from the _Overtaker_."

"You can thank the C-Sec officer who has a thing for me."

The pacifier launches from little Roger's mouth and he starts up again. Big Roger hefts him over his shoulder and pats his back.

"I'll do that as soon as I can get this guy to sleep one night straight through. I suppose we could get an overnight sitter at least once this leave. Allegra and I need some adult time. Speaking of which," a big grin brightens his face, "sounded like you had a good night."

"Shit. We didn't wake the baby, did we?"

Our complex's walls are paper thin. You have to whisper if you don't want to be heard.

"Don't sweat it, Neve." Big Roger whooshes his son into the air like a mini cruiser. The baby screams louder. "He was giving us a time of it before you got in. He took a three hour nap yesterday afternoon and we couldn't put him down."

Allegra shoves out her front door. "What the hell are you doing to my baby?" She taps little Roger's nose when daddy swoops him down.

"Pissing him off, apparently." Big Roger hands off the squirmy, cranky bundle to his wife. "Fix him."

"I should have stayed inside," Allegra says and makes cooing noises and pulls happy faces at her son who's not having it.

Big Roger hitches himself on the balcony's railing. "So, Neve, who was the lucky gu—"

My front door slides back and Dakan squeaks out before the automated entrance closes on him. This is obviously not the scenario the Thursharps pictured when they overheard us last night. Roger goes stony faced and Allegra becomes ultra focused on her son, upping the goo-goo talk and putting her back to all of us.

I clear my throat. "Roger, this is Dakan. Dakan, Roger."

The turian steps forward and offers his hand to the off duty Alliance engineer. Tension vibrates the space around us. For a second, I think big Roger's going to brush off Dakan's gesture, but after a few seconds he clasps the C-Sec officer's hand in his.

"Pleasure meeting you, officer," Roger says without a hint of inflection.

I chime in, eager to thaw the proverbial frost fixing everyone's faked hospitality in place. "Dakan's the one who helped me with your shore leave."

"Certainly appreciate that." Roger smiles as he shakes Dakan's hand, but he's not really smiling.

Dakan offers a curt nod in return. "Glad to be of help. It's never easy when you're on the right side of the law and the law doesn't stand with you." He slips from Roger's grip and turns my way, places a hand at the small of my back. "Message me later."

One of my shoulders goes up. "If I have time."

Dakan must interpret my teasing because he bends down and nuzzles my cheek with his jaws.

"You're out of work."

"Not for long," I retort.

Soft laughter buffets the side of my face. With a final squeeze of my shoulders and a touch of his forehead to mine, Dakan strides down our corridor and leaves the complex. There's a wistful sigh in me that wants out. I stomp it into nonexistence and am about to make my goodbyes to Roger and Allegra when I see concern wrinkling both of their brows. Roger speaks first.

"Neve, you didn't—" Roger's mouth clamps shut and he pinches his lips. "That turian didn't strong arm you, did he?"

"What are you talking about?"

Scrubbing a hand over his shorn head, Roger looks to his wife, then to me.

"Ah…"

Allegra shifts little Roger, who is content twisting his tiny fist into his mom's T-shirt, into one arm and touches her husband's arm.

"I think what Roger's trying to say is he, _we_, want to make sure you weren't pressured into anything with that C-Sec turian."

I know where they're going, but I really want to hear one of them say it instead of tiptoeing around their issue. I fold my arms.

"Why would I feel any pressure?"

Toying with the blanket swaddling her son, Allegra says, "Because he did you a favor on our sake. Nothing comes free."

"You really think I'd trade sex for favors?"

Allegra winces and her mouth opens, but Roger cuts in.

"That's not what she said."

"Only because neither of you have the quad."

"Neve." Allegra appears pained.

"No, you know what? Fine." Roger steps up so we're chest to chest. "It's not that we don't have the _quad_, Neve. It's because we care about you and don't want to treat you like shit, but you want it out there, so: did you fuck that turian because he got me off the _Overtaker_?"

"Not only no, but _fuck_ no and why the fuck would either of you think that?"

"Because why else would you?" Allegra asks, her upper lip curling.

My throat gets tight and my face flames. I can't look either of them in the eye when I say, "I really like him."

They scoff at my admission.

"Neve," Roger says carefully, "how long have you known this guy?"

"Why don't you call me a whore and be done with it?"

"BECAUSE WE DON'T THINK YOU'RE A WHORE!" Allegra's shouting sets off little Roger again. She bounces him and gentles the top of his head. Humans and salarians from the other apartments are out on their balconies or on the avenue below, investigating the commotion. Allegra lowers her voice.

"You're the one using that word. Not me. Not Roger. I do think you're delusional if you don't think that turian isn't using you." She calms her son before he erupts in a full blown hissy.

"He's not like that," I say.

"You don't know him."

"Neither do you."

"But I do know turians," Allegra says. "And C-Sec officers. I know what they're like. They're no better than the Blood Pack or the Talons. The only difference is the Council backs them which makes them worse because they think they're right, but all they do is use people."

I put my hands on my hips. "What could Dakan possibly be using me for?"

Allegra and Roger exchange a look then they both look me up and down. Silly me. I forgot no one ever sleeps with anyone else because they have great chemistry right off the bat. It's all head games, mind fucks, and power plays. A turian would never have genuine feelings for a human. We're all just crusty repurposed gym socks they jerk off into.

"I'm so over this," I say and whirl around, stomping down the short corridor and into our stairwell.

Roger calls after me, but I hear Allegra say, "Let her go."

Anger vibes precede me as I barrel up Shalta-A. I don't have to elbow anyone out of my way. They see, or feel, me coming and scoot. One unfortunate salarian crosses my path to the transit station. I hiss at her like a vampire exposed to daylight. She _eeps_ and jumps away.

Gym socks do not get asked on dates. You don't talk to them about their history or their ambitions. You don't ask them to message you after you hook up. Dakan has done all that. He treats me like a person, not a blow up doll and he would never _ever_ use me.

* * *

Dakan's eyes were glued to the transcription feed coming off the bug in Neve's purse. The instant he'd plopped himself behind his desk, he'd delved into her file and had decommissioned the sig-breaker program linking his terminal to her p-sig. They'd slept together and he meant to see her again. The surveillance couldn't continue. Then he found gold in the transcription feed.

_I really like him._

He'd read it ten times now. The words on his pane blurred under his scrutiny. Rubbing his eyes, he tugged his ear pieces from his power tower. Gray cord snaked from the audio aperture. Dakan made sure he had enough slack, then fitted the mini speakers in his ears. Once he had the audio file open, it took some trial and error before he found the time marker he wanted.

"I really like him," Neve said, sounding so close she might have stood right behind him.

The rest of the recorded conversation wasn't quite so pleasant. What infuriated him most was the Thursharps weren't wrong. There were significant swathes of C-Sec that weren't any better than the gangs feeding off the Citadel's vulnerability and vice. And he did intend to use Neve in the beginning. The couple's animosity had been palpable. He couldn't feign innocence. Interest in Neve had prompted the favor he'd done for them. Self interest. It should have bothered him. Acting in self interest was what brought good cops low. That wouldn't happen in his case. His relationship with Neve wouldn't affect his dedication to the force or the quality of his work. He had the reports to prove it, the most important of which was to the left of his open audio file.

Overnight, a turian double agent Dakan stationed with a Talon cell on Omega culminated their sting. A detailed inventory of the contents of a NOVA owned—one of their shadow companies was on the paperwork—warehouse the cell guarded was included with the report. There were weapons. Nothing too exotic. A dozen slaves, human and asari, were liberated and undergoing treatment at Huerta Memorial. Crates of stolen goods came in with the slaves. The merchandise would be held as evidence then auctioned off if owners couldn't be traced. There was a notation next to the confiscated item which had occupied close to half of the warehouse.

_Copious amounts of red sand present. The product is devoid of filler, but otherwise not unique. However, samples from a vacu-sealed batch of the drug have been sent on to Zenta Labs for testing. Stills in section G-7 of mission report._

Dakan paged to the indicated subsection of the document. Three images were embedded in the file, stills of the vacsules mentioned in the inventory notation. White and yellow logos stamped on the steel and versaplast capsule containers had Dakan drumming his talons on his desktop. A caption under the stills read: _origin Aridi Sin Development._

When Dakan went to open a new search pane, he accidentally played his queued audio file.

"I really like him."

Dakan really liked Neve too. And because he liked her, he would delete the phantome chip feeds, though he supposed the bug would keep transmitting no matter what he did with the files. He trimmed Neve's confession from the audio feed, bundled it, and sent it to his p-sig. The rest of the data went into his interface decinerator. While he toggled out of his Neve themed folder, he noticed another file icon he didn't recall creating. It was a vid file. He tapped once on his interface.

"Detective Tallen?"

Swiveling in his chair, Dakan found senior detective Chellik beckoning to him from the entrance of his office. Dakan rose from his seat whose springs croaked at the abrupt absence of weight.

"Sir."

Chellik motioned Dakan into his office. "Join me, detective. There are a few initiatives in our ongoing investigation I'd like to discuss."

Forgetting the mysterious vid file, Dakan locked his terminal and followed the senior detective into his quarters.

* * *

I get lost on the way to Pure. Navigating the Presidium isn't second nature to me yet like it is on the ward arms. The skycar tax I pay doesn't cover transport on the ring. When I visited Band Cluster Agencies for my audition I sprang for a cab out of pocket. I can't afford that expense every time. Hoofing it is cheaper, but I'm relying on my own poor direction sense. Too proud to ask a resident for directions or an escort, I park myself in front of Avina for the third time since my arrival. The VI interface holo is a life size light sculpture of an asari. She acknowledges me with a genial nod.

"Greetings, Neve. It has been twenty three minutes since I last welcomed you." Avina's synthetic voice, despite its superb programming, has a halting, manufactured cadence. "How may I assist you?"

"How do I get to Pure?" I ask, eyes trained on my omni-tool. I have less than five minutes to make my appointment. Avina sing songs at me.

"Pure, the regenerative salon, is located on wall two, tier four, suite seventy-three. From this access point…" She gives me step by step directions. I think I hopped on the wrong elevator at the commons. "Shall I page a skycar for you?"

"No thanks," I say and sprint back the way I came while the VI invites me to access her again anytime I require her services.

The backs of my legs burn. My calf muscles cramp. I'm doubled over in front of Pure. Tears of sweat trickle down my cheeks and my nape. My hands rest on my knees. I inhale deeply through my nose and blow out hissing breaths. Straightening, I adjust my robe-style Kelsey top, fix my pony tail, and enter the salon. A familiar figure lounges on a bench in the waiting area. As I pass, the drell gains his feet, but I say nothing to him and check in with the brown skinned, brown haired receptionist. Henna patterned hands whisk over her light key console. Stacks of gold bangles tinkle with her arms' movement. The human woman locates me in her system and invites me to make myself comfortable while she pages my cosmetic tailor. I perch on the bench furthest from the drell. Doesn't dissuade his chatter.

"You're late," he says with that phlegmy rasp of his.

"Thanks," I say, bringing up an extranet pane to keep me occupied. "I had no idea."

"We'll have to remove a treatment from you're itinerary to save time. The c-gene soak perhaps."

I drop my omni-tool gloved arm. "What are you doing here?"

The drell leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees and his chin on his folded hands. "Chaperoning."

_Great, Dalessia thinks I need a baby-sitter._

I slouch against the wall and call up my subscribed extranet feeds. It's going to be a long day.

* * *

_Author's Note: Early chapter this week because I'll be traveling on 10/29/2012. Next chapter will be up on Monday 11/5/2012._


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: I'm Gonna Be A Supermodel**

In the middle of my regenerative treatment I remember the drell's name. It's Vlair. My cosmetic tailor, a teal skinned asari with a complex pigment pattern smattered on her cheeks and forehead, slathers cold, clear medi-gel over the still healing slash over my chest. A crystal tipped wand in her left hand is positioned above the treated area. She flourishes with the fancy stick and my skin tingles, itches. I grasp my thighs so I don't interfere with her work and grind my teeth not because the treatment hurts, but because I can't stand having a chaperone.

When my cosmetic tailor met me in the reception area, Vlair tried following us into the salon. The receptionist stopped him. The drell seemed to think I needed watching back here. I don't know what trouble I could have gotten into flat on my back on a glorified gurney. I shiver and the asari working me over places a calming hand to my forehead. When I relax she resumes her regenerative work.

There's something about the way Vlair looks at me I don't like. Working as a dancer and hopeful power player in the entertainment industry has immunized me to leers and physical assessment. Vlair doesn't leer. He calculates. His eyes may be black and unreadable, but I sense the machinations behind his stillness. I don't like being the focus of anyone's machinations, least of all a man with a palpable sexual charge to him. Whenever he's near I feel it, a tingling pressure like the sensation before you get a static shock or when someone's about to release a biotic burst. Vlair is a whole bunch of potential sexual energy vacu-sealed in an attractive, patient, and conniving package. There's a word for men like him.

Trouble.

I intend to steer as clear as possible.

The asari finishes her wand mojo on my chest. The regenerative treatments are done. Everywhere I had a cut, scrape, or bruise she daubed with gel and abracadabra'd with her crystal tipped stick. My skin is clear. No marks mark me. Except the dusting of freckles on my shoulders and the crescent shaped birthmark under my left breast. Upright on the cot, I stretch out my arms and legs and appreciate the wonders of medical technology. I touch the once inflamed skin above my breasts which is still dewy with gelatinous residue. I'm completely healed. My cosmetic tailor rubs me down with steaming towels until I'm clean and glowing pink.

"We're skipping the c-gene soak, so we'll finish with the shine set injections," the asari says and wheels a metal tray next to my cot. Twelve gleaming syringes rest on a white cloth.

I swallow.

"It's painless." The asari assures me.

Like hell.

A dozen pokes and shrieks later and my skin takes on a faint preternatural glimmer. I rotate one arm. It shimmers like someone ground up a bunch of pearls and powdered my skin with it. The effect isn't dramatic, but under the manufactured sunshine of the Presidium, I stroll under a proverbial spotlight. Lots of heads turn as I pass. Eyes are drawn to my subtle brightness. A small crowd gathers when our summoned skycar descends. Whispered questions regarding my identity float up from the flock of lookey-loos. With my drell escort and my enhanced features, people assume I'm a celebrity.

Vlair holds the cab door open for me. Before I duck inside, a human man captures a still of me with his omni-tool. I assume the drell will circle around and enter from the opposite door. Acting against my expectations, he sidles in beside me. His thigh brushes mine. I plaster myself to the other door. The cab lifts off.

"I showered before I left the suite this morning," Vlair says.

"You don't stink."

Far from it. He smells of leather and sweet smoke. I breathe through my mouth and cross my legs tight. The potent sexual charge he throws off makes the air in the back of the cab heavy. My body responds to it. I fold my arms over my chest so he can't see my nipples pebbling against my blouse. The light friction from my bra and silky top drives me crazy.

"Do you have a problem with aliens?"

"It's not aliens," I say. "It's you."

Anyone who's anti-alien has no business settling on the Citadel or any galactic metropolis. Whenever Terra Firma, the anti-alien, pro-human activist group, has one of their rallies on the wards it takes all of my self control not the give them the double finger and spit on their leaflets. Humans deserve a voice in galactic policy the same as any other species, but, in the grand scheme of the universe, we're not that important.

"What's wrong with me?"

_You're sexy and dangerous and a big, fat temptation._

"Some people never hit it off, you know? Oil and water."

"That's unfortunate."

To my credit, I don't snap on his conversational bait right away. I wait a good seven seconds.

"Why's that?" I turn from the window.

Vlair's relaxed against the cab's leather seat. His head is back and his eyes are closed. The skycar's rocking jostles his body. Long fingered, green hands rest atop powerful thighs.

"I look after all of Dalessia's interests. You interest her."

"Until my two weeks are up."

"You'll meet the temp contract's minimum requirements. I believe you'll exceed them."

I roll my eyes. "What makes you so certain?"

Vlair's head shifts my way. The chair's leather makes a rumpling sound. His outer and inner lids draw up and back.

"I have an eye and intuition for these things."

* * *

Besides me there are six other models in the Hotel Calliope's main ballroom. Three asari, another human, and two salarians. The salarian women pace and nibble their fingers, peek around the partition screen segregating the models from the shoot crew. A pack of krogan grumble at the far end of the ballroom. The jumbo lizards are part of the shoot. They're gathered on a stage outfitted to resemble a craggy ditch. Prop stonework studded with mica chips glitters before a black backdrop. The krograns' colorful bone frills contrast with the bleak setting. A human tech crew rigs up stationary spotlights and diffusers. A human woman, a clanking tool belt strapped across her hips, tosses hover spots into the air and guides them into position via remote.

"I can't do this. I refuse." One of the salarian models zooms to her pile of clothes. The satin robe draping her angular frame wings open around her legs. She tugs on her trousers. "What the hell is Lanaral thinking? Posing salarian with krogan. Ridiculous."

_Not ridiculous,_ I think. _Controversial._

Katonma Cipreke Zana Tresur'k Lanaral is a genius. The salarian photog in question flits about the trussed stage. He holds an old fashioned light meter aloft, checking and re-checking his conditions. An unwieldy, black Nikon—an antique—with a telescopic zoom lens dangles from his neck. _Otherworldly Sights_ did a spread on him a few months ago after the release of his ad campaign for Shinsteki Omniscience.

The campaign for deluxe omni-tools rocked the galactic community. Lanaral's black and white photos of a turian couple walking two volus on leashes outraged pundits from the turian and volus camps. The asari lauded him and still do. Most humans didn't get it and sniffed at the high concept ads. Shinsteki Omniscience sold out of their featured omni-tool model in the first week. Featuring taboo interspecies poses is Lanaral's MO. Krogan/salarian pairings makes a lot of sense from him considering the species' fraught history with the genophage.

"I never should have left Sur'Kesh," the riled salarian woman says, whipping her robe onto an empty chair. She ditches the go-see.

The other human candidate, a rail thin phantom of a woman with a fall of white-blond hair, toys with the sleeve of her robe as she watches the salarian's departure. She catches my eye. The look she gives me says, _You're really going to do this?_

The face I make at her answers, _Why not?_

Ten minutes later that woman's dressed and hurrying from the ballroom.

"You bailing?" I ask the remaining salarian on my left. We sit together in two decorative, though uncomfortable, chairs we've commandeered from the ballroom's perimeter.

"Bailing? No. Want this job. Credits are good. Worth dealing with krogan. Would rather be here than holed up on Sur'Kesh."

Sur'Kesh is the salarian homeworld. Not many salarian women ever leave it. Females aren't common. Their rarity makes them a guarded commodity, so they don't get much freedom.

"Most are satisfied with that lot," the salarian model confides in me. "Some of us want more."

I learn there are fifteen females on the Citadel. Five of them are attached to modeling and talent agencies. Images of the scarce females are in high demand for specialty publications and feeds.

"_Fornax_ won't leave me alone," the woman says. "But you have to draw the line somewhere. I draw it between myself, two elcor, and a cup." She shudders.

I'm wondering if _Fornax_ has a human/turian issue when a volus waddles over to the clutch of models.

"Ladies," _shush-hiss_ goes his pressure suit. His nasal voice cuts over the suit's exhalations. "I have your order."

The volus calls out the list. I mutter a curse. Not first, not last, I'm smack in the middle. At a go-see, or any audition, you never want to be in the middle. If you're first, the client sees you with fresh eyes. You get a chance to intimidate the competition too. If you bring it. And let's say you're at the end. You get to do reconnaissance on everyone else's performance, if you have the nerves for it, then blow them out of the water. If you bring it. The client's in a good mood at the end of auditions. Hours of work are almost over. Time for the after party. In the shit middle, the client's tired. Their starting adrenaline is spent. They've already seen a few girls. Talent and beauty blur together. If a girl's done a great set and you've seen it you might get nervous. You might over think your own performance.

Unless you're me.

I don't sit in my chair wriggling my foot and gnawing my thumbnail. When the first asari sashays up to the stage, I trot along behind her. The robe that covers me sheets over my skin in silky ripples. I cinch its sash tighter around my waist so the garment doesn't flap open. Vlair is seated next to a boxy sculpture of equipment. There are screens and terminals, live feeds of the stage. The krogan are restless. They grunt and growl at each other. So many males in such close proximity isn't the best idea. One of them pounds his fists together and snorts.

Lanaral, who clicks off a few test shots with a palm cam, blocks my path with an arm. Pacing behind the haphazard Jenga tower of screens and power towers, he checks his stills on one of a dozen active panes, nods. The volus who announced our audition order stands at the photog's side. Lanaral chatters orders at him so fast I don't comprehend, but the volus does. He totters off towards the stage where the asari awaits her direction. Her expression is hesitant as she regards her krogan co-models.

Following a rush of air from his pressure suit, the volus says, "Miss, if you would disrobe please and take the stage." A stubby, gloved hand grasps the air. The asari's robe flutters into it and she ascends the short flight of steps to the dressed dais.

Lanaral comes to the foot of the stage and addresses the entire room. The hover spots and diffused light shines off his glossy blue-gray skin.

"For those unaware this is a test shoot. Footage for Potential Barriers. Their new tech. Kinetic armor reinforcement. Cutting edge. Kobin designs. Great honor to work with him. Will give direction once. That's all."

The salarian describes the mood of the shoot. The krogan should be menacing (surprise, surprise) and the women seductive, fearless, regal. We should not be overwhelmed by the krogan. We should command them. In the nude.

"We're not getting any armor?" The bare assed asari calls from the stage, taking the words right out of my mouth. She holds herself against the chilled air, performs a hopping dance.

Head slicing in her direction, Lanaral says, "Armor? No, no. Prototype models. Not for civilian use. Campaign for military. C-Sec. Licensed private security. Will comp in the product after the official shoot. Let's begin."

Wiry body elastic with manic motion, Lanaral begins snapping stills with his omni-tool, palm cam, and the huge Nikon hung around his neck. The sudden start catches the asari off guard, but she soon recovers. Krogan crowd her. Their big bodies bump her this way and that. Their deep throated laughter shakes the glittery papier mache rock formations framing them.

Extending her arms, the asari makes room for herself. Blue energy shimmers over her navy body. A biotic gust sends the krogan staggering back. She grasps the nearest one by his crimson frill and drags him—she's stronger than she appears—close and starts posing.

While he captures stills, Lanaral shouts encouragement for angles and pairings he likes. Nothing more. The models arrange themselves as they please. The krogan are unruly. A scowl twists the asari's features when she fights them for dominance. Leaning against Vlair's chair, I view incoming stills that flash on the wall of active panes.

Amongst the dull, leathery hides, carmine and chartreuse bone plates, the asari twists like a vibrant blue ribbon. She's magnetic even in her frustration. I can't help but look at her. And yet…and yet the stills are flat. Lifeless. Her presence doesn't charge her surroundings. The krogan are infuriating props. She doesn't let them bully her, but she can't harness and direct their attention either. Their cat-slitted eyes measure the middle distance or what's occurring off stage. My embarrassing satellite session with Dalessia plays behind my eyes.

_All about you isn't it?_

That's what Dalessia told me. I didn't get it then. Of course my performance, my dancing, is all about me. I'm the one everybody watches. I'm the one everyone admires and wishes they were.

_A little girl kicks her legs on the couch, lip synchs songs she knows by heart with the glamorous woman on the vid._

Me.

Now I get what Dalessia meant. It's there in the asari's stills. The cameras, the lights, the audience, it's all about her. And it shows. Her work suffers under her selfishness. She's not connecting with her audience. Watching her is like sucking on hollow candy. A few moments of sweetness dissolves on the tongue and your stomach's left chewing on air. A performance is a waltz between performer and audience. When it's done, both should be satisfied.

The next asari model doesn't fair any better. The krogan refuse to work with the salarian. Vlair escorts her from the ballroom before the lizards mutiny. The volus calls out the next name on his datapad.

"Neve Cezetti."

The stage awaits. Five agitated krogan beat their chests at the salarian woman's retreat. The sleeve of my robe snags on Vlair's outerskin suit when he takes his seat. He eyes the stage.

"I hope you have a plan," he says to me.

The knot in my sash comes loose under my fingers. I shed my robe, wad it into a ball, and toss it in Vlair's lap.

I have a plan alright.

I just don't know if it'll work.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: Money Makes The World Go Round**

The hover spots bake my bare skin like noonday sun. Nonetheless, I tremble. You try standing in a crowd of pissy krogran and see how you do. A standing light blew out as I took the stage. The human crew scrambles to replace the shattered bulb. They're screwing in the backup part when the ballroom doors swing open. An elcor in dress sapat—the garments look like pretty saddles to me—tromps inside.

Flashing from the foot of the stage to the front of the ballroom, Lanaral greets the elcor. He gestures at the shoot, escorts the lumbering alien closer. The two species' pacing is mismatched. While the elcor moves like a sloth on Quaaludes, the salarian photog careens in a zig-zag path in front of him. Lanaral matches the elephantine alien's stride while maintaining his sonic clip.

"Kobin. Welcome, welcome. So glad you could make it."

Kobin. Lanaral mentioned his name in his initial address. He designs for Barrier Potential. An Eeyore voice in slow-play emanates from the vocal gills striping the elcor's blunt face.

"With warm appreciation, I'm pleased you invited me. Subtle exasperation, I rarely get out of the office."

Since elcor speech is flat and without inflection and their expressions are, to most, non existent, they preface all statements with the emotion they intend conveyed. We take it on faith that they're telling the truth when they do. While Lanaral kisses up to his associate, I set my plan in motion.

"Hey," I shout at the krogan who've backed away from me since the shoot pause. They're grouped stage left. They mutter amongst themselves. The biggest one answers me.

"What do you want, human?"

All of them ignore me when I motion them over. Clenching my fists, I stomp across the stage to their clique. I'm not especially mad, but the fists I make and the stomping conceals my case of the shakes. If the krogan pick up on my fear, there's no way they'll listen to me. My soles pound the stage floor. My chest bounces with my powerful gait. A dozen golden eyes train on me. I approach the big one. Thick scars lattice his face. The bone frill crowning his skull is the color of freshly spattered human blood. Every drop of moisture has evaporated from my mouth. My tongue is thick and dry, but my voice doesn't quaver when I speak.

"When the shoot starts up again I want you, all of you," I make a round of eye contact with each male, "to get on your knees around me."

The alpha krogan's laughter jitters my insides like the ramped bass at Shadow Matter. The rest of the lizards chuckle, taking their cue from the alpha.

"And I want offspring human. Universe is a rough place."

He's turning when I blurt, "Twenty credits to anyone who'll take my orders for the next twenty minutes."

The alpha and a few of his cohorts sniff at my offer. The rest appear intrigued.

"And a hundred credits to the krogan that makes me look the best." I chew the inside of my cheek. That's my food budget for the next two days.

With a reptilian tilt of his head, the alpha says, "Make it fifty a piece and you have a deal." The other krogan grumble their agreement.

Fuck. Fifty credits a piece? That cuts out food for a week and drops the banked payment my mom needs to keep her dealer off her back to nil.

"Thirty-five," I counter.

"Forty," the alpha snaps. Teeth nearly shear off the end of my nose. My bladder functions become questionable.

Forty a piece doesn't leave much in my account, but I can't book this job without the krogans' cooperation.

"We're set, Lanaral," a human tech shouts to the photog.

I yank my hair and let out a high pitched growl.

"Fine. Fucking fine. Forty."

The alpha claps my back so hard I think my lungs might collapse. I stumble forward.

"Pleasure doing business with you, human." To his troops, he says, "Up men. Do what the lady tells you and you might come out a hundred and forty creds richer."

The things I do for fame.

* * *

That asari model, the one who posed first, fucking hates me. I see it etched in the strain lines at the corners of her narrowed eyes and surrounding her pursed lips. She's doing what I would have done in her position: try to intimidate me, rattle me out of my focus. Those mind games don't work on me. I use them too much. Her presence is powerful motivation. I want her to know I'm the best. I'm paying enough for it.

The krogan do exactly as I say. They worship me, bear me up, let me use them like footstools. From his shouts and the rapid fire flash and click of his three cameras, Lanaral is as into the shoot as I am.

"Fantastic. Fantastic," the salarian says as I pad down the steps. "You were on _Citadel Space_, correct? Saw your spot before Dalessia Kella sent your pre-package. Your raw presence on camera is excellent."

"Utterly sincere," Kobin says, "your stills are very good."

Compliments from the photographer and designer practically seals my booking. I skip to Vlair and pluck my robe from his outstretched hand. Wrapping myself in satin, I perch on one of the drell's armrests and watch the last asari audition. Our little group around the viewing station grows.

An asari, the one who went second in the audition queue, also recognizes me from _Citadel Space_. She's curious about the Shadow Matter riot. I tell her everything I saw.

"That's crazy," she says and flips up a pane from her omni-tool. "There are a ton of photos on the extranet. Have you seen these?" She extends her arm so I can see the stills she's called up.

A few shots of Shadow Matter's interior are posted. Nothing scandalous; C-Sec officers rounding up arrests and working off their datapads. Most images are of the humans and aliens in kinetic bands seated along Zakera-A and of the lines for the medical up-carts. I count thirty ass shots of dancers awaiting medical treatment. No one had time to change while we escaped. We evacuated Shadow Matter in our skimpy illuso-weave outfits. The costumes feature cutouts on the breast, butt, and crotch regions. Dancers wear bikini tops and thongs underneath, but the get ups don't leave much to the imagination.

In the club or on a shoot, I don't mind being naked or next to it. Those are professional spaces for sensual, or sexual, entertainers. I work in the industry. I'm not a twenty-four-seven exhibitionist. Outside of a professional venue I like covering up. Seeing those butt and crotch shots has my left eye twitching. I had no control over any of these stills. Strangers took them at a vulnerable moment. I pinch the center slit of my robe shut up to my neck.

In the comment string below the gallery, extranet users have matched all the featured dancers with their body parts by comparing long distance head shots with the vulgar close ups. With the asari's permission, I scroll through the comments. My eyes trip over the lighted text like feet over a bed of bright orange coals.

XANFRIED: Nice. Gotta love Zakera Ward. Finest pussy on the Citadel.

AbbieOnTheRox: I've seen prettier and CLASSIER on Kithoi. Nice outfits, ladies! Way to elevate your gender!

SANCA_TERANIUM: When did whores in line become news? How is this relevant to the larger issue of faulty security on the Upper Wards? These pink and azure clubs are a menace.

Walls of text blur as I page through the data. There. I pause the scrolling feed with the touch of a finger. A pixilated crop of my shell-shocked face is superimposed next to my backside.

E_VELASQUEZ: She's not a Shadow Dancer.

MIDNO: With smug superiority, yes, she is. She's new. Her stage name is Persephone.

E_VELASQUEZ: You don't have to do that elcor crap on the feeds, you know.

MIDNO: Sarcastically, Oh yes, because tone carries so well over the extranet.

EntiaLa'Shi: Oh, I saw her on _Citadel Space_! It's sad when women in the pink industry are ashamed of their profession. Denial doesn't get you anywhere. Own it, girl! 3 you and Emily Wong!

I can't read anymore. Live footage from the end of the final test shoot occupies my attention. The last asari can't stand up to the krogan. She shrinks in their presence. Lanaral can't coax a decent shot out of her.

"Something wrong?" My asari friend asks, dousing her omni-tool.

Before I get my mouth open, the asari who stared me down during my audition butts in.

"I'd say so. You did see those tacky outfits the 'dancers' at Shadow Matter squeeze themselves into?" She's draped along the back of Vlair's chair. Who knows how long she's been peering over my shoulder. "Dalessia Kella's really scraping the bottom of the crate with you."

"Dalessia Kella," Vlair interjects, "never scrapes the bottom of the crate."

The asari sharpening her nails on my ego appears chastised. Vlair rises from his seat and adjusts his outerskin suit.

"Judging by your audition, the bottom of the crate is where you left your talent."

The asari who shared her omni-tool with me titters at Vlair's cutting remark The one the drell insulted pushes away from the chair.

"And it's obvious that's where all of you left your taste."

Snubbing the lot of us, the spiteful asari quits our group and steals behind the models' partition screen. Kobin, the elcor designer transfixed by the stage, swings his big head around.

"Dejectedly, I always miss the drama."

Lanaral claps. "Ladies, thank you for your participation. Audition results will be sent to your agencies within the next twenty-four hours."

The crew begins breaking down the set and the lights. Lanaral swoops into the chair Vlair has vacated. A datapad appears in the salarian's hands. His fingers tap a hectic rhythm on the screen. A broad black and green chest blocks my view of the photog.

"Is that low panel cut out on your outerskin suit for the ladies?" I ask Vlair as I whirl away from him.

"You certainly noticed it." He keeps pace with me.

"Because you're always in my way."

The mean asari makes sure she body checks me when we pass each other by the partition. I step behind the screen and get my clothes, undo my robe's sash.

"Want me to hold that for you?" Vlair asks. The other models pay him no mind.

"Get out of here." I hold my robe together.

"I've seen you naked twice."

"That doesn't mean you get to watch me dress." I point at the exit. Vlair doesn't move.

"A 'thank you' might facilitate my compliance."

"A 'thank you' for what?"

"Defending your honor."

My brows come together. My honor? What the hell's he talking about?

"You mean the asari?" I ask.

Vlair nods.

"I didn't ask for your defense. I didn't need it."

That bitter asari's comments stung. I don't disagree with them. Not the ones disparaging my current job. Shadow Matter's one of the classier clubs on the ward arms. It's still only a rung up from a titty bar. And I'd ditch it in a heartbeat for a better venue. I'd rather star in designer campaigns and quality production vids than shake my ass in an illuso-weave thong.

"But I gave it to you. Dalessia prefers gracious talent."

The drell's connection to my prospective boss hangs over me. That connection is a leash tethering me to him and him to her and he yanks on it. Hard. I bare my teeth in a menacing smile.

"Thank you."

A slight bow precedes Vlair's departure. I get dressed. The drell's silhouette moves over the screen separating us. His voice carries over the partition.

"Have you ever been to the Presidium Lounge?"

My head pops through the neck hole in my top. "No."

"We should go there for lunch."

A loud gurgle twists my empty stomach. I clutch my gut. Tivictus and O'Callahan's is where I had my last meal.

_You can have the leftovers Dakan got us from the pastry stall_, I think at my needy belly.

"No," I say, though inwardly, I mourn. There's a five star bistro attached to that lounge where all the galactic ambassadors and high powered politicos hold their working lunches. Politics don't interest me, but connections are connections.

"We've gotten off on the wrong foot," Vlair says. "I'd like a chance to correct whatever impression I've made."

I don't want him correcting anything. The impression I have of him is perfect. Negative. If I persist with my refusal he'll trot out my precarious position with Band Cluster and his influence on my tenure there. I wave at the asari who showed me the Shadow Matter stills on the extranet. She hitches a purse onto her shoulder.

_Can you get rid of him?_ I mouth at her.

She gives me a thumbs up and I call over the partition.

"I can't. I have a date with C-Sec."

"C-Sec?" Vlair's relaxed poise stiffens. "What do you—"

A second silhouette appears next to his. My asari conspirator says, "Would you mind walking me to the skycar terminal? Some of the krogan made inappropriate comments during the shoot. If I go off alone I won't be able to take all of them by myself."

I grimace. Will Vlair buy that story? Krogan can be brutal, but trying a stunt like that on the Presidium? I've never heard of it. I cross my fingers and hold my breath.

"Of course." Indulgent authority coats Vlair's words.

The pair of shadows painting the screen diffuse then vanish. When I can't hear their voices or footsteps, I snatch my purse, peep around the partition, and scurry to one of the ballroom's side exits. I'm shouldering the door open when two fingers jab my shoulder. The alpha krogan gets in my face.

"Don't even think about skipping out on us, human."

* * *

The burger Sam hefted was as big as his head. Tomato slices and mayo clouded beef juice slopped into his plate. He chomped the dressed sandwich, dropped it onto his plate, and sucked his fingers clean.

"What did Chellik want?" He asked around a cheek stuffed with food.

"The impossible," Dakan said.

The turian sat next to Sam at the grill bar at Tivictus and O'Callahan's. He'd finally made good on his lunch promise, but hadn't touched the meal sitting in front of him.

_Waste of creds_, Sam thought.

"Nothing's impossible for the great detective Tallen."

"Bringing charges against Dalessia Kella within the month might be."

"Shit, you serious?" Sam swigged from his beer. One drink wouldn't slow him down at work.

Dakan nodded. Talons tapped at each side of his plate.

"What crawled up Chellik's carapace?"

"Saren." When Dakan said the rogue spectre's name, his mandibles clicked against his jaws. "Executor Pallin wants good press on the turians circulating in the feeds. Breaking NOVA and exposing their high profile assassination targets would go a long way to polish Saren's grime off our plates."

"Tall order."

"Agreed." Dakan finally took a bite out of his vasdra haunch. It looked like a bruise colored turkey leg. The turian's feeding was avian. His head darted to the meat secured in his talons like a hawk's when it vivisected its prey. A strip of meat came away in his beak-like jaws.

"And if you don't deliver?" Sam asked, averting his gaze from his friend's odd habits.

"I think I'll be reassigned."

The admission soured the mood. They ate in silence until Sam wiped the grease from his hands and tossed his napkin atop his cold fries and parsley garnish.

"You gonna lean on Neve?" Sam grinned as he brought his beer to his lips. "Put her under the bright light?"

"Neve is out of the picture."

Sam jerked his head back in the middle of a noisy slurp from his bottle. He scrubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Out of the picture as in total history?" Maybe he wouldn't have to wait for his new sieve program to finish collating data from Earth's resident archives.

The turian grumbled, didn't meet Sam's eye when he said, "Out of the picture as in no longer a case pawn. We're dating. I think. You were right about my intentions with her. I didn't want to admit it."

Dating. Dakan thought he was dating a stripper. That wasn't how it worked with those sorts of women. Neve had Dakan in the palm of her hand.

"She hasn't asked you for creds or anything, has she?" Sam asked.

Dakan shot him a sharp glance.

"Why would she do that?"

Shrugging, Sam said, "She lives on the Lower Wards. A guy like you would make a nice meal ticket."

The stool Dakan sat on squeaked when he swung in Sam's direction. Sam's beer touched his lips. The turian brought the drink down. The bottle clinked on the versaplast bar.

"I haven't known Neve long, but I know she'd drop dead before she asked anyone for a handout. What's your problem with her?"

Sam squeezed his bottle. He couldn't tell Dakan about Angela. No one knew about her.

"Just a feeling. You get them about cases all the time."

Dakan positioned himself before his meal. "Yes, but I'm the detective and you're the Networks tech."

Their waitress, a plump woman with a shock of fire engine red hair and thick glasses, plunked their check between them. Sam loved how far T & C's took its historical accuracy. He glanced at the tab, then at his friend. Dakan swiped the receipt and made a stink over the depth of Sam's appetite. A quality meal wasn't cheap. Sam thumped Dakan amiably on his armored back.

"If Neve's not a case pawn anymore how are you going to get any dirt on Kella?"

A pile of credit chits landed on the counter. Dakan swept them and the receipt aside.

"When I get the diagnostics back on that vacu-sealed red sand sample I'll have a good starting point. There won't be a paper trail linking Kella to the drugs or Aridi Sin Development, but if I can figure why she tampered with the drug, I'll have a better idea of what she might be planning."

"That's a long shot."

"I know," Dakan said and slid off his stool. "That's why I'm hedging my bets. It'll be expensive, but I think I'll pay Barla Von a visit."


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: I Asked Her To Stay, But She Wouldn't Listen**

I stop at CresCare before heading to the nearest C-Sec information desk. This hospital isn't a free clinic. They, the emergency response med team, took the bashed up quarian here because the hospital has a special fund for the enviro-suited aliens. Any quarian in need of urgent care on the Citadel gets free treatment at CresCare. And they have the best clinicians for quarian infection treatment and enviro-suit repair and maintenance. At the reception booth I ask a human man about the quarian male brought in last night. Hazel eyes give me a suspicious up and down.

"You're obviously not a relative." A gold tooth flashes at me when he speaks.

I grip the square edged counter and push into it. "No, but I do know a friend of his in lockup. I think she'd like to know how he's doing."

"Uh-huh." His attention lingers on my shine set injection luminous cleavage, then travels to his terminal pane while he locates the correct records. The data he scans makes his face pucker. Cracking his knuckles, he says, "No details, but I can give you a general status."

That's enough for me. Convincing the head officer at the C-Sec outpost where they hold the quarian woman is harder. Dakan's not here to grease the bureaucratic gears. My shimmery boobs do not assist my negotiations with the stern turian behind the scanner controls. Red colony markings streak his face plates like war paint.

"You're not getting back here, lady, understand? You're not next of kin, you're not council, and," he bends to my ear, whispering, "you have nothing to offer that I want."

After my payouts to my krogan co-models, I have no credits left for bribes. I have no credits left for food. Or my mother. Hopefully, I book the job I bet so much on.

"Oh, officer Santius, you're such an unreasonable hard ass," a lilting voice I recognize calls from the inner chamber.

"Shia!" I embrace her once she passes under the scanners. A trench coats covers her illuso-weave costume. Another asari in a stately flow dress and the detatched attitude of a matriarch follows Shia. There's a human woman in a C-Sec hardsuit at the matriarch's side. Shia releases me when the older asari lays a hand on her shoulder.

"Your mother demands an audience with you, Yashia."

Shia runs a palm over her scalp crest. Flakes of gold gilt clinging to the raised scales there flutter to her shoulders like brilliant dandruff.

"Tell her I'm waiting. She can sleep on my couch."

"The stipulations of my interference with this," her upper lip pulls back, "_incident_ require your presence on Thessia within the month. The contract you signed compels your acceptance. Of course, you could always return to the cell."

"And you could always deal with a return trip out here when mother has her change of heart. Like always."

The matriarch's left eye twitches. Shia laughs.

"Or, you can help my friend here with whatever she needs and I'll go along with mother's wishes quietly."

I am a crawling bug in the matriarch's path. The pleasant expression she plasters onto her face cannot mask her disdain.

"What favor might I pay you?" She asks.

All I want is a short face to face with the quarian woman. The matriarch holds up three fingers, signaling the turian officer manning the scanner. His mandibles flick out and in. He motions me through the scanner while Shia's advocate works on her omni-tool.

"The sum has been deposited," she says.

A taloned hand comes down on my shoulder before I enter the outpost's suite of holding cells.

"Fifteen minutes." The tip of the officer's mandible scrapes my cheek. His head snaps in the human officer's direction. "Patrolman Chandra, escort her to the quarian's cell."

The fortified chambers along each side of the long hall officer Chandra marches me down don't have kinetic bars like prison cells in vids. Clear, versaplast walls seal prisoners inside. Two other human officers patrol the corridor, checking each prisoner's status. A salarian with crazed, rolling eyes slams himself into his windowed wall as we pass. Whatever he shouts at us can't penetrate the soundproofed cell. Officer Chandra touches the comm link at her ear.

"3-A needs another dose. Ten milligrams into the venting pipettes should do it."

The quarian woman's cell is at the far end of the hall. She sits cross legged in the center of her assigned cubby, her back to the outer hall. Approaching the intercom on the right side of the cell, officer Chandra punches the open channel button with her thumb.

"vas Nerai, you have a visitor."

The patterned kerchief draping the quarian's face mask creases when her head turns. Several seconds tick by. She doesn't budge from her meditative position. The breath she takes slumps her shoulders. She stands right before I call it quits. Her movements are graceful and precise. A black gloved hand touches the sister intercom inside the cell.

"What do you want?" Tiny lights in the quarian woman's face mask pick out her eyes and high boned cheeks.

Officer Chandra moves away and allows me access to the external intercom.

"I went to CresCare," I say into the speaker. "Your friend—"

"My step-brother."

"He's in the intensive care unit. When I checked, they had his infections under control. He's submerged in an antibiotic bath."

Removing her hand from the intercom, the quarian places two fingers over her heart then touches the ring of metal around the light on her suit's mouthpiece.

"Keelah. He survived the first night. He has a chance." Emotion makes her voice quaver. She's quick to bring it under control. "Why are you telling me this?"

I open my mouth, but don't speak. Going to CresCare seemed like the right thing to do. A sister has the right to know whether her brother is alive or not. Quarians aren't a respected race. If I didn't tell her, who would? Everyone deserves hope. Those are the correct reasons. Those are the right things to say. But they're not the truth. The channel button clicks when I press it.

"You shouldn't be in here by yourself."

"That's not an answer to the question I asked."

I lean my head against the wall.

"You're in a shit situation. I feel bad about it. I can't get you out, so—"

"So, you bring me word of my brother to assuage your guilt."

I rear back, ready to dispute her remark. The quarian's eyes are tired through her mask. She's fought this battle who knows how many times. The reason I rail is because I don't want her to be right. But she is right. Massaging the space between my brows, I wonder if I've ever done anything selfless in my life.

"I'm sorry." My voice cracks. "I—"

The quarian's raised hand silences me.

"Don't. Don't you dare offer me your pity or platitudes. The favor you've done me is more than I hoped for in this place. I will return it when and if I can. Your self castigation is wasted here. Be grateful you have a place in this universe. You never know when you'll lose it."

The speech replays in my mind as we exit the cell corridor.

"Her public defender is quite good," officer Chandra says. "He's a quarian on an extended Pilgrimage. I don't know that he'll ever return to the fleet."

Basic human education includes units on all the major races in the universe. My middle and high school units on quarian culture weren't extensive. I know they created the geth, the synthetics who invaded Eden Prime under Saren's direction. The quarians lost their homeworld to their robotic creations. They all live on a fleet of ships in constant migration across the universe. Individuals away from the fleet, like the woman in holding, are on what's called a Pilgrimage. It's a coming of age ritual, but that's the limit of my education, or at least of my attention span in school. Officer Chandra obviously knows more than I do. I keep my questions to myself. I've already stuck my ignorant foot in my ignorant mouth once today. That's quite enough.

"You get what you came for?" Shia's waiting for me at the outpost's entrance. The matriarch is nowhere in sight.

"No, but I did what I came to do."

Officer Chandra has escorted me all the way outside. When she leaves my side for Shia's I see why. The hardsuited woman produces a small device from a compartment in her armor.

"My omni-tool," Shia says and offers her hand to the patrolman. Officer Chandra slips the handguard onto Shia's proffered appendage. "I thought it was impounded."

"It was," Chandra says. "Now it's not."

Once the device is in place Shia balls and flexes her hand. She beams at officer Chandra.

"You're the best, Bharati."

"I know. See you tomorrow night?"

With their date confirmed, Officer Chandra departs. I raise one brow at Shia.

"Bharati? Did you seriously score a date on lockdown?"

"A cell can't contain all of this." She makes an up and down gesture at her body and thrusts one hip out. "And Bharati's cute. Love those C-Sec hardsuits." The omni-tool barely glimmers on over Shia's arm when it starts vibrating and chiming non-stop with all her incoming messages. She switches off the device. "I don't have a mind to parse all that at the moment. What's going on with Shadow Matter?"

"Sarc—"

My stomach erupts in a loud _uuurruuup_. I cover my belly with both hands. My cheeks prickle with heat.

"Why don't we go to Zakera café?" Shia asks. "My treat."

Saliva fills my mouth at the mention of a hot meal. Shia knows I live on a tight budget and I'm immensely grateful that she's willing to pick up the tab. The asari tilts her head, squints at me, steps back.

"Girl, you're glowing. When did you get shine set injections?"

* * *

The human cocktail waitress at the Presidium Lounge sets Vlair's drink on his table and hurries away. Not the usual reaction he inspires in women. Until recently. His countenance must betray his black mood. He came here for the atmosphere, but the plash of a nearby fountain, the synthetic white-yellow light shafting through the windows, the delicate laugh of an asari executive on a holo-call who blatantly gives him the eye, none of it cheers him. Slender red straws spear the brandy and crystalline cubes of ice in his glass. He stirs the contents of his tumbler, lets the ice melt. The drink is a prop ordered so he has a reason to stay. No one runs out on him.

_Not since the early days_, he thinks. Back when he didn't understand his innate ability to draw women without the slightest effort. When their constant attention frightened him and he didn't know what they wanted with him or how to give it. At that time the hanar had not yet recognized his talent and had not yet altered his training to suit his strength.

Women don't frighten him now. Nothing so easily controlled could.

_Why did she run?_

Vlair grinds his teeth, shoves his glass away with a swipe of his hand. He'd done nothing different, given nothing away and yet Neve ducked out on him while he escorted the charming asari model to her transit terminal.

_It's not aliens. It's you._

But why! What misstep caused her mistrust?

The buzz of the omni-tool at his palm brings Vlair to himself. A request for an RT chat pops up from the light gauntlet's haptic interface. This model is vid chat compatible. He accepts the request. Kella's face fills the vid pane, her aloof, slightly distracted expression almost comforting in its consistency. That face changes only when he performs for her at night. Sometimes at midday if she has no pressing business.

"I'm surprised you accepted this call," she says. "I'm not interrupting anything?"

"No." He's too gruff and she hears it.

"Interesting. It's not often you're without the company you've set in your sights." Kella's head tilts downward. She's busy with something in another pane on her p-terminal. "Lanaral sent out his agency notice."

"That was fast."

"There was a clear favorite. That's not as important as Neve's behavior at the shoot. How did she interact with the non-humans on site?"

"Well. She seems comfortable with almost everyone she meets. If she harbors any anti-alien sentiment she's buried it too far down to detect."

"Then she has none. I trust your skill."

"I'm glad one of us does."

The look Kella levels at him would suit a child in the midst of a tantrum.

"Sulking doesn't become you, Vlair. Not everyone in the universe can love you despite your significant charms. But don't worry. I have an errand that will take your mind off Neve for a short time."

"I'm listening." Vlair lifts his drink, swallows a mouthful of watery brandy. The cocktail waitress swishes by on another delivery and he flags her for a fresh drought.

"One of our storage sites, the warehouse on Omega, was compromised last night."

Vlair traces the curve of his bottom lip with his thumb. "Blue Suns? Blood Pack? Eclipse?"

"C-Sec. I believe."

_I have a date with C-Sec._

The tapping of Vlair's finger on his new glass goes _ting-ting-ting_. Coincidence. Neve's casual mention of the Citadel's authority and this news of their interference in NOVA's off-station affairs couldn't be linked.

"What makes you suspect them? They have no authority outside Citadel space."

"Two of the surviving Talon members loyal to NOVA's credits reported a C-Sec plant headed the sting. Aria herself confirmed the turian's identity and contacts with C-Sec. The Citadel's police force is no different than NOVA. Or Cerberus. We are all of us expanding our influence."

Fresh brandy burns a path down Vlair's throat, makes a brazier of his insides.

"You want me to find this traitor turian?"

"No. I want you to meet Ceenira Zanius at the lower docks. She has an important package that requires your deft hand. Will you retrieve it for me?"

"If that is your will."

Kella terminates the vid chat. The small pane winks out of existence. Coordinates appear in Vlair's inbox. With them, he pins a nav point to the live map stored on his omni-tool then he finishes his brandy and descends to the Lower Wards. This errand is twofold. He will carry out Kella's orders, but before his return he will contact his hanar guardian. This news will interest the Illuminated Primacy.

* * *

Barla Von made Dakan wait an eternity. The turian's feet jigged on the glossy tile in the anteroom of the volus' office. Only he occupied the waiting area. Another turian had come and gone hours ago. The information broker remained cloistered in his suite. Dakan inwardly recited his list of interests in order of importance.

_Dalessia Kella's agenda, intelligence on NOVA's tampering with red sand, and a dossier on Vlair Upshad._

The sum afforded to him from C-Sec's accounts would cover one exchange, perhaps part of a second. Depending on Barla Von's price, Dakan could supplement C-Sec's stipend with personal funds. Information on all his interests would command a hefty fee.

The doors to Barla Von's office hissed open. A pressure suit muffled voice carried into the anteroom.

"I don't care what they're telling you, Sarc." _Shush-hiss._ "Your club will open its doors in two weeks. Cease your fretting, nephew." The rest of the quiet conversation Dakan could not make out. Then, "Detective Tallen, please, come in."

The volus sat behind a large desk. When Dakan assumed his place in the simple chair before the workstation, Barla Von nudged his interface panes aside and folded his hands on the desktop.

"What can I do for you, detective?"

"Dalessia Kella."

"Ah," _shush-hiss_, "the infamous Ms. Kella. What's C-Sec's interest in the entertainment industry?"

And herein lay the trouble with soliciting Barla Von. Besides the price. Anything Dakan offered up in this conversation became another piece of intelligence available for sale by the broker.

"Non-existent. This appointment is personal not professional."

_Shush-hiss._ "Of course it is. Executor Pallin's fixation with NOVA is incidental is it?"

Dakan leaned forward, gripped his knees. "A dossier on her activities since her arrival on the Citadel."

"I suppose you are prepared to make a very large _personal_ investment in the asari?"

"How large?"

Barla Von quoted Dakan his price. The turian's mandibles almost dropped off.

"That's skyway robbery."

"That's business."

"I can't afford your business."

Not with the C-Sec stipend and his allotted personal credits combined. Dakan shoved out of his chair. This whole meeting was a waste.

"Wait," Barla said. Dakan halted. "What figure are we working with?"

The amount Dakan offered rendered the volus speechless. The suck and wheeze of his pressure suit filled the awkward silence.

"Well, detective, I can optimize my vast intelligence network to your very specific needs."

Dakan picked at his handguard. "Fine."

The credit transaction completed. The volus brought his interface panes within working range. A light key console drew itself beneath his stubby fingers.

"Dalessia Kella solicited my expertise recently. I believe the requested information would be of great _personal_ interest to you. I'm uploading the data to your p-sig."

"But I haven't told you my p—"

The bright white eye apertures in Barla Von's pressure suit fixed on Dakan.

"Nevermind," the turian said and opened the file in his inbox, read it. He put a call in to Chellik before he left the Presidium Ring. "Ambassador Udina needs extra security at his office and at all social events scheduled for the upcoming months. NOVA's targeted him."


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: Like A Bad Girl Straight To Video**

Fuel fumes shimmer the air on the lower docks.

_Heat waves shimmer off cracked earth scorched by Rakhana's sun._

_ Red rock formations shade the horizon._

_ A dracot-frill quick steps over the super heated ground, headed for shelter._

_ The lizard freezes mid-scamper, runs in high speed reverse._

_ The young drell seated next to Vlair on the mat rewinds the vid they watch._

_ A question._

_ "What do you think the homeworld was like, Vlair? Does any of your family remember?"_

Vlair waves away the memory and the dizzying fumes. He never knew his family or his homeworld. This trivia does not possess him as it did many of the other trainees on Kahje. There are times he wonders if this preoccupation with the past aided or hindered his fellow assassins. Perhaps that fixation keeps the Compact alive in their hearts. The vows he swore to the hanar are dead inside him.

_You are disconnected_, the other drell would tell him. _If you were Whole, you would not suffer conflict._

What fools. Rakhana's theology, clung to by dullards and cowards, justifies the drells' use as mean tools, absolves the self of the body's doing.

_How convenient when all we do is steal, lie, and kill on someone else's behalf_, he thinks and spits on his forsaken faith.

Soon he passes out of range of the fuel dependant shuttles and spacecraft. Drive core enabled ships throw off an electricity. All the eezo sets his skin tingling. He resists the urge to scratch. The female turian at his designated nav point doesn't resist. She claws at the underside of her fringe. There's a cylindrical package tucked under her left arm. Her eyes, nestled deep within her protective plates, are closed.

"Zanius," Vlair says.

The turian woman opens one blue eye, continues scratching. She offers the package to him carelessly. A roost of male turians, five of them, gathered at the neighboring docking ramp monitors the exchange with interest. Zanius is their focus. Every twist of her neck or shift of her waist causes a shuffle of motion in the group. They jockey for position, for the best view. Turian women have slighter builds, smaller fringes, and their dorsal shells leave most of their necks exposed. Exposed turian necks, one of the few places on their bodies not covered in metallic plating, are vulnerable and therefore, erogenous. Vlair would like to see one of the males take a shot at Zanius. Though smaller and less armored, turian women are no less deadly. And Zanuis is a Talon commander and rumored biotic. Vlair would think twice before taking her on.

"Not concerned with my credentials?" Vlair asks as he accepts the package.

"Dalessia told me who to expect. You fit the description." A leather utility belt bands Zanius's hardsuited hips. She slides a mini datapad from a pouch at her side. "This was all my team could retrieve from the warehouse."

"Is this one of the Minagen X3 blends?"

"It is. This has the AY-Eternity compound Aridi Sin isolated threaded in just like Dalessia wanted." Zanius turns over the datapad to Vlair. Documentation on the screen itemizes the ingredients in this batch of altered red sand and lists the manipulated drug's properties and effects. "Should do everything you want it to. We weren't able to run any tests before the raid."

Powering down the datapad, Vlair fits the wafer thin screen into an interior pocket in his outerskin suit. He turns the package in his hands. Coarse, brown cloth covers the vacu-sealed capsule. Credits placed in the correct palms get questionable cargo through customs. Transporting illegal goods off the Lower Wards and onto the Presidium Ring takes more than a generous donation to the right C-Sec agent. A mimeo-shroud will do the trick. Plenty of kiosks in the lower markets sell black market programs on the sly. Vlair hops a skycar to the commercial district. After the shaded, soundproofed partition comes between himself and the salarian driver—and the seeker application in his omni-tool reports no active surveillance devices in operation—Vlair places a vid-call to his hanar guardian, Dymandius.

"This one is pleased to hear from you, Vlair." Dymandius's rosy, dirigible body sways on its planted tentacles. Patches of bioluminescence fluoresce under his skin. "It is eager for news of your progress with Dalessia Kella."

"She's ready to move on Udina. I have enough evidence to expose her. At your word, I'll proceed."

Five years of serving Dalessia Kella is more than enough. All of Vlair's assassination and espionage contracts are long term. It's how he works best, winning trust through a gentle and insistent application of seduction and feigned devotion, teasing out close held secrets with a flick of his tongue and a thrust of his hips.

"This one believes the asari should continue her scheme. Ambassador Udina is an aggressive representative for the humans. Even this one is sometimes swayed by his rhetoric. A human spectre has been appointed under his term. It knows he desires a seat on the council."

"Impossible."

"A year ago, perhaps, but if commander Shepard solves the turian and geth problem, the council will be in the humans's debt. We will go forward with Dalessia Kella when Udina is dead. Ensure the success of her plan. We will, as the humans say, kill two birds with one stone."

_Two birds._

The skycar's upholstery cushions Vlair's weight when he sinks back into the seat.

_Udina and Kella._

Vlair touches the cloth wrapped package at his side. Rough fabric rasps against his fingers. What of Neve Cezetti? Is she a bird or a stone? Victim or weapon?

If this altered red sand performs as well as the documentation reads—they'll know when they run their own small test—Neve will perform as Kella's weapon for at least one night.

* * *

A holo-egg waits outside my door. It's smaller than the album on my shelf that holds all my vids and stills. This mini version is likely limited to one or two siga-bite files. When I stoop and pick it up, I groan. Salmon and fresh greens and half a bottle of white wine distends my stomach. The long trek home dismissed my guilt over stuffing myself, but can't abate my cramps. Popping the clasp at the top of the egg, I play the holo-vid stored in its memory.

An animated rabbit—blue fur, enormous shiney eyes—weeps a single tear that shatters in a sparkling mist on its shoulder. A banner unfurls from its paws. Blue, bubbly script decorates the banner.

_Get over yourself, Neve._

I snort as the bunny evaporates into a pixellated cloud and reforms into the message: _With love, the Thursharps_. I hold back laughter as I elbow into my apartment. My bag flops onto my kitchen island. I put the egg album next to it. The animation loops. The vid quality degrades on the second round. Flicking the egg's base stabilizes the image. Roger or Allegra probably bought the thing off some shady sales roamer. The egg's cap clicks shut. I stare at it a long while and pick at my lower lip. Little Roger's happy squawking comes through the wall I share with my neighbors. My friends.

Nope. Not ready to forgive them yet.

I whirl about, whipping off my Kelsey top. I chuck the blouse over the top rail of my standing clothes rack and get the shower going.

The shower and a set of comfy PJs lowers my bitch levels. I check my omni-tool. No new messages in the last fifteen minutes. I jump when someone pounds on the wall I share with the Thursharps.

"Neve," Allegra shouts. "Are you done sulking?"

"Fuck off."

My buzz from the wine at lunch is long gone. The bottle I nursed that first night with Dakan after the fight with Razorback has a glassful left in it. I pull it from the fridge and a glass from the cabinet.

"Holding grudges shortens your life span," Allegra says.

I sip the crisp wine. "Never planned on living long."

This time Roger calls to me.

"Negative emotions are the leading cause of premature aging. How many jobs can you book with your face all pruned up?"

My cheeks bulge with wine and laughter. I swallow, take my glass with me outside, and rap on the Thursharp's door. Allegra answers, a wide smile on her face.

"I can't forgive you until you actually apologize," I say.

"Neve."

"Allegra." I mimic her exasperated tone then prop myself on her doorframe. "You know the both of you said some nasty shit this morning."

Roger leans over Allegra's shoulder. "Really, we implied it."

With a light slap to her husband's chest, Allegra says, "Not helping, babe."

"You're right. Here, I'll fix it. Neve, we're sorry."

"That's not what we—"

Roger massages his wife's shoulder. "Not helping, babe."

At the sound of his son's stirring from the back room, Roger leaves us. Allegra's lips twist.

"What we said this morning…it's the turian we don't trust. We love you."

I squeeze my wine glass's bowl. My throat burns and not because of the alcohol.

"Yeah, well, ditto," I say into my glass and take a big gulp. "I get pissy when my friends _imply_ that I can't take care of myself. Been doing that since I was eighteen."

When I was eighteen Allen died and me and my mom's lives went to shit.

"And," I say, gesturing at Allegra with my glass, "what about the implication that I can't hold my own with Dakan? Anyone I take home could potentially screw me over, you know, in the bad way."

Now it's Allegra who can't help laughing.

"You know I'm right." I down the rest of my drink and await Allegra's response.

"OK. So, I'm sorry. Would you get the fuck in here?"

Little Roger goes down for the night. With any luck he'll stay asleep long enough for one feature-length vid and a quick group smoke. We sit together on the Thursharps's couch and catch up, make sure all our emotional wounds are scabbed over. The audition garners a million questions from Allegra. Roger's more interested in the kinetic armor reinforcement prototypes.

"Don't know much about them besides Potential Barriers is selling to the military and private security. It's all non civvie stuff," I say.

"Since when does the military need sexy ad campaigns?" Allegra pauses the vid. No one's watching it.

"Sex sells," Roger says. "Even to us jaded military types."

"You certainly do 'sexy' well, Neve." Allegra pats my cheek and sighs. "Don't know how you handle that. If I had to market my body like a product it would mess with my head."

"I'm not immune."

Not by a long shot. All the while we've sat together, I've checked my inbox ten times, tapping the refresh icon on my omni-tool's interface every few minutes. Lanaral and Kobin liked my set, but what if they changed their minds? Asari make the best spokesmodels. Ads featuring the mono-gendered aliens perform well consistently. Every species finds the asari alluring. Going with a human is a gamble. Our market value is erratic. But Lanaral is known for his outlandish choices…

My handguard buzzes. I hold my breath when I see Dalessia's name in my inbox. The message displays in its own pane.

_Neve,_

_ Be at Band Cluster's suite tomorrow at 3PM. We should discuss your future with the agency._

_ Dalessia Kella_

_ Band Cluster Agencies – Executive Agent_

"But what does that mean?" I shout at my omni-tool then clamp my hand over my mouth. We all listen for any noise from Little Roger who, thankfully, keeps his peace.

A follow up message would come off desperate. Not that I'm not desperate, but my potential employer doesn't need to know that. Is this good news or bad? Did I book? In another pane, I navigate the industry feeds. Publications like _Burn 6_ and _Otherworldly Sights _maintain up to the minute news feeds on campaign reviews, model debuts, and public meltdowns. A high profile campaign booking like Lanaral's would have coverage. I find articles and blips on the audition and Lanaral's proposed concept. Nothing on booking.

Allegra restarts the vid and nestles into her husband's side. Dalessia's note, while largely unhelpful, does remind me I haven't messaged Dakan. News about Dalessia and my budding career seems to interest him, so I write about the shoot and how much I enjoyed our time together. All my worries amount to one long letter. Re-reading it, I consider deleting half of the missive. It's very candid. Honest. More honest than I usually am with fuck buddies. Does that mean Dakan's something more? I realize I wouldn't mind if he was. He gave me his p-sig ID this morning. I select DKARAKIKZ from my contacts queue and hit send.

* * *

Two turian patrol officers confronted Sam when he returned to the Junction hub. They crowded him and he backed away, held up his hands.

"Is it true detective Tallen mated with a human?" The patrolman with the chipped mandible asked. His friend, a dark carapaced turian with steely eyes, craned his neck forward eagerly like he might snatch the information from Sam like a bit of meat off the bone.

Maintaining his defensive posture, Sam said, "What the hell? Where did you hear that?"

"Officer Karakik told us," the steely eyed turian said. "He says detective Tallen's putting C-Sec's image in jeopardy. That an officer with the team's best interests at heart wouldn't risk all our reputations for his own ends."

_Karakik? How could he possibly know?_

Sam shouldered by the patrolmen. "I don't inventory detective Tallen's off time." Not frequently, anyway. "Ask him yourself."

The turians muttered behind him. Sam found officer Karakik at his desk, wading through a stack of reports. When Sam leaned over his interface screens, Karakik tipped up his head fringe.

"What are you spreading around about detective Tallen?" Sam asked.

"The truth." The turian's mandibles hugged his jaws.

"You can't possibly know that."

Karakik collapsed his interface and folded his arms on his desk. "He's using me as a go-between with his human. He claims she's a case pawn, but her correspondence to him is far more…intimate. Chellik should know. After Saren, a turian related C-Sec scandal would be disastrous."

"Oh, come on, man. You know it would never come to that. Dakan obviously thought he could trust your confidence."

"He thought wrong." The interface's orange panes separated turian and human. "Why don't you go back to the cave and let the real officers sort out their own differences, hm?"

The little barb had Sam clenching his fists, but he let it go. Picking a fight with a turian officer would land him on unpaid leave no matter who started it. He high-tailed it to his workstation and unlocked his interface.

Preliminary results from his sieve program collaged his screens. He'd left the hub after combing over a sega-bite of data on Lena Hopenhower-Cezetti. Reading about the woman's trainwreck of a life had worn him out and the sieve program wasn't half done retrieving tagged information. Neve's mother had a list of charges longer than _War and Peace_. Mostly she got collared for solicitation. If not solicitation then public intoxication or possession. She served several stints in jail and did time at three different rehabs. There was a nine year gap in her arrest record that coincided with her tenure at Bisbekbi Talent Services, an upscale escort agency, and her marriage to Allen Cezetti, a New York based media mogul.

So far, he'd found nothing illicit in Neve's past. She'd attended a number of primary and secondary schools and was expelled from one for fighting. Could he have been wrong about her?

Sam opened a chat window, checked everyone's status in his contacts queue. Dakan was online. Sam tapped out a message.

Sam_the_Man_83: Hey, have you been filtering Neve's correspondence through Dakan K?

DTALLEN: Yeah. Long story. She thinks I'm Dakan K.

Sam_the_Man_83: Well, whatever message she sent you made Karakik twitchy. He's airing your dirty laundry all over the hub. Had two turians ask about your mating habits and Karakik's threatening to involve Chellik.

An arm came down in front of Sam's interface while he waited for Dakan's reply. Chellik loomed over him like a bird of prey defending its kill. The senior detective read over Sam's shoulder.

DTALLEN: Has he notified Chellik yet?

"Tell him you don't believe so." Chellik's deep dual vocals sent a shiver down Sam's neck. This turian held both his and Dakan's futures in his talons. He relayed what Chellik instructed.

DTALLEN: Thanks for the heads up, Sam. I'll talk to Karakik. This is for the best. I have to come clean with Neve.

Chellik's talon picked out a rhythm on the desktop. "Let him know you're scrubbing officer Karakik's inbox of any incriminating evidence then terminate the session."

Again, Sam did as ordered and closed the chat window.

Seated on the edge of the desk, Chellik asked, "This woman is a direct connection to Dalessia Kella?"

"Yes."

"Can you access detective Tallen's terminal remotely?"

Instead of answering, Sam toggled into Dakan's system, navigated to his files on the NOVA investigation.

"That one there, on Neve Cezetti," Chellik said, pointing at the file icon.

Dakan had cleaned out most of his surveillance on Neve. The phantome chip feeds were gone. Sam could recover that information in an hour, but Chellik didn't need to know that. Her case pawn form was there and—

"What's that vid file?" Chellik leaned over and took control of navigation.

The vid player started up. Blurred images and darkness swirled in the active pane then cleared into a close zoom of Dakan's face. Chellik skipped ahead in the run time. The tube cam had recorded one angle of a crappy apartment. One wall with a sofa/bed butted against it. Bodies moved across the screen. Chellik skipped forward. At the 10:22 mark the turian's brow plates lifted. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face and averted his eyes, cursed under his breath.

"I don't care how long it takes," the senior detective said. "You don't move from this desk until I have a full report on Neve Cezetti. Anything you can find on her, I want it on my desk. Your outgoing messages will be closely monitored. If someone, _anyone_, tips off detective Tallen before we bring this woman in, you're finished. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: I Don't Like The Drugs But The Drugs Like Me**

Officer Karakik had already forwarded Neve's message to Dakan's p-sig. He had notified the patrolman of his subterfuge before his intimate encounter with Neve. He hadn't considered she might reveal more than he'd intended in her correspondence.

_I'd like to make use of your significant talents again. Soon. That thing you did with your mouth was incredible._

_ Likewise_, Dakan thought.

The rest of Neve's letter chronicled her audition and her concerns about her status with Band Cluster Agencies. Nothing about Dalessia directly, but Dakan didn't care. He was happy she'd contacted him. His reply should come from his own sig ID. She had to know the truth about him.

The cook-mate in his corner kitchen dinged. Dakan collected his heated g-dex rations and kicked back on his couch, portion skewer in hand. Impaling a cube of meat onto the skewer, he raised it within striking range, but couldn't take a bite. His insides were out of sort and he couldn't pretend he didn't know why.

What would Neve do when she found out the truth?

Scenarios played out in Dakan's thoughts. None of them optimistic. She was so reactionary, so in the moment. Asking her to put herself in his hardboots would get him little more than a drink in his face. Long term, getting dumped wasn't a big deal, but losing Neve as both a case pawn and a potential permanent mate would be a hard blow. There had to be a way to manage the worst of the damage.

A squeeze of his left hand triggered his hand guard's action gem. His omni-tool flared. He stared at his inbox like it might manifest the perfect response for him. Light on the details. He'd keep his message light on the details. Dinner at his place would be the ideal staging point. His home turf gave him confidence. All the elements in his space were under his control. If the worst occurred and Neve threw a fit and her beverage, at least it wouldn't be public.

The moment Dakan worked up the nerve to reply, an urgent message from Chellik popped into his inbox. The message flashed at him. The subject line read "NOVA," but after Sam's warning, contact from the senior detective made him edgy. After a deep breath and a silent petition to the spirits to spare his judgment, he checked the memo.

_Detective Tallen,_

_ In light of your recent findings on NOVA's interest in ambassador Udina, I've set aside time for us to compile a tactical response proposal to Executor Pallin. Report to my office immediately. I'm sure you appreciate the urgency. Covert agents are already in place at the ambassador's office and residence. I have one of our best operatives on day to day shadowing; however, Udina will have to be briefed on this situation before his next scheduled social event. You should be involved in the planning process and the presentation to the Executor. Be prepared for a long night._

_ Veck Chellik_

_ Senior Detective – Citadel Security_

Dakan reread the message four times. His heartbeat thudded in his ears and his omni-tool gauntleted arm trembled. The senior detective wanted him involved in the management of Udina's security detail and weigh in with the Executor. What an honor. The load of credits he dropped at Barla Von's already paid off.

Tipping his ration tray like a half-lowered drawbridge at his mouth, Dakan shoveled his meal down his gullet, discarded the emptied container, and slotted his dirtied portion skewer into the flash wash.

_A place for everything and everything in its place._

An urgent meeting was no excuse for disorder.

On his way out the door, Dakan remembered Neve and his mandibles clicked against his jaws. Messaging her could wait until after the proposal. There were only so many high stress situations he could handle at once.

* * *

At the front door to Band Cluster's suite I sweat it out. Dalessia doesn't summon courted talent for nothing. Either I booked the Potential Barriers job or she's letting me go. The time on my omni-tool reads two-fifty-five PM. I thumb the door alarm and less than half a minute later Vlair escorts me inside. The drell doesn't address me or make eye contact. Prickly vibes radiate off him. Is this because I ditched him after the shoot or because he knows I'm getting shit-canned? Would he bad mouth me to Dalessia over a lunch date?

The asari's leaning on the front of her desk when I enter her office. She's less formal today in a crisp cream button down and tan trousers. Fat gold hoops glint at her plum colored lobes. The smile she favors me with is dazzling. Pushing off her desk, she takes me by the shoulders and kisses both my cheeks. I'm frozen under her touch like a field mouse before a strangely magnanimous cobra.

"Have you seen the feeds?" She asks.

"Not since last night. They were pretty dead."

"Not today."

Dalessia guides me back to her desk. The panel screen concealed in the wall opposite the workstation flips over. A photo of an asari matriarch is at the top of the ANN feed. The black robes and headdress she wears and the deep shadows beneath her eyes give her a sinister air. I read the bold caption across the bottom of the still.

_Disaster at Noveria outpost laboratory. Matriarch Benezia dead. Suspected of collusion with Saren. Human spectre, Therese Shepard, saves over thirty civilians._

Under the matriarch's still is a looping vid of the commander. She blocks the campanion's recording eye with a gloved hand. The campanion catches a glimpse of her before a male turian blocks her and what appears to be another asari from view. Therese Shepard is smaller than I pictured, wiry even in her bulky hardsuit. A wicked scar mars the dark skin on her left cheek. Eyes as gray and hard as steel tell the universe to fuck off.

"I have the wrong feed," Dalessia says and jumps to _Universal Media's_ broadcast with the remote she then pockets.

The headshot Vlair snapped of me is posted in the breaking stories category. And one of my least flattering butt shots from the riot. I fold my arms and slouch into a sulk.

"I rather thought you'd be excited," Dalessia says. "You landed Potential Barriers as a client and all the buzz about Shadow Matter and Lanaral has generated a lot of interest in you."

Reading and hearing that I nailed Lanaral's audition can't delete those awful ass shots off the extranet. I say so. Melodious laughter fills the suite.

"Is that what you're pouting about?" Dalessia wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. "They're not classy, but those stills aren't that bad. Activity on the extranet is publicity. You realize you're one job or two client contacts away from a full contract and we're not even at the close of the week?"

My tight stance loosens. "Really?"

"I never exaggerate when it comes to business. I'm willing to waive the remaining terms of the temp contract upon completion of the official Potential Barriers shoot."

The offer clears the stormy clouds circling over my head. A permanent contract equals a steady stream of credits and leaving Shadow Matter for good. Dalessia ventures to the chaise before the large window overlooking the Presidium's parklands. Once she's arranged on the cushions she reaches over and pats the space next to her.

"I thought a small celebration was in order," she says and gestures to the tall hookah at her feet. "I assume flavored leaf is to your taste?"

"Of course." I sit next to the asari and unwind one of the coiled hoses connected to the silver smoker while Dalessia fills the water jar from a silver carafe. Vlair observes the proceedings from the entrance to the foyer, makes no move to join us.

"Pay Vlair no mind," Dalessia says, pinching the leaf mixture from a versaplast container. "He's been in a fine mood since last evening."

The drell inclines his head in my direction. I take an inordinate interest with the play of light over the hose's delicate mouthpiece. Swirling patterns etched at the base of the silver pipe scratch at the pad of my thumb. I squint at the leaf mixture Dalessia packs into the bowl. A viscous emulsion pocked with crimson grains slathers the leaf. It clings to her fingers like natto. I'm about to ask about the brand when she speaks.

"The shoot starts at nine AM tomorrow. You'll receive payment after the job's finished. About ten thousand credits after my fee."

The little elated shriek that wants out of my mouth gets packed down my throat. I swallow and cough, make a vaguely professional and blasé comment. Inside, I turn summersaults and shake my pom-poms. Ten thousand credits by tomorrow evening at the latest. I can route a payment to my mom and stock my fridge all before bedtime. With the cake of coal glowing orange and placed atop the grate covered bowl, Dalessia lifts her hose's mouthpiece in a toast.

"To a new partnership," she says and slips the pipe between her full lips.

I repeat the toast and do the same.

Thick smoke clouds my mouth and slides down my throat. The taste of bitter chocolate lingers on my tongue. I exhale in time with Dalessia. Sweet white vapor curls about us like heady incense. The overpowering fragrance makes me lightheaded. Or is that the syrupy residue coating my mouth and throat?

Usually, I'm buzzing after three puffs on a self-rolled. This mixture slams into me. Halfway through my second drag, my head becomes too heavy for my neck to support. It lolls. Dalessia seems very far away. The chaise and suite stretches, puts ten feet between us. My stomach lurches at the high speed disorientation. The room shifts. I'm falling. The hookah pipe slides from my grasp.

Dalessia's face zooms to mine. Her arms stretch the many feet separating us and steady me. My hose's mouthpiece _plinks_ on the floor.

"Vlair." A thousand variants of Dalessia's voice slither from her mouth in a whispering chorus. "If you're not joining us, would you please monitor my inbox?"

Movement in my periphery draws my eye. Vlair abandons his place by the foyer. As he travels to Dalessia's desk he leaves ghosts of himself behind. The phantoms, posed in various points in the drell's stride, linger even after he's seated and rolling his own smoke. A cold length of metal pressed into my palm shocks me out of my hypnotic fixation on Vlair. The hose pipe is replaced in my hands which are four stories down from my head to my lap. My hands and the pipe are tiny in my faraway lap. It will take forever to get the pipe to my mouth.

"Finished?" Dalessia's face hovers before mine at the end of her anaconda neck.

Sound burbles from my mouth. I think I nod at her. My head starts sliding off my neck. Dalessia catches it before it drops off and forces my gaze to hers.

"Then relax, Neve." The asari's eyes are a set of obsidian almonds. "Embrace eternity."

* * *

Neve slumps towards Kella. Her arms are slack at her sides. The asari cradles the model's head in her hands. They look like they're about to kiss, then Kella drapes the woman on the sofa and leans into the small cushions at her back. The test begins. If the AY-Eternity compound in the red sand fails, Neve will be useless in their plans for Udina. Vlair sucks a drag off his self-rolled and watches Neve perform.

The model rises from the small sofa, her legs wobbly, then firm. Vacant eyes stare into space. She dances. At first, her arms hang and swing with her movements like cement filled socks attached at each shoulder. Vlair blows out the smoke he holds in his lungs.

"If you want this plan to work, you'll have to control her whole body, not just her legs."

"I'm aware," Kella says and Neve parrots the phrase. The asari makes an exasperated noise her human puppet doesn't mimic. "Her psyche's so malleable. Being selective about what she says and does while animating her is difficult. At least we know the AY-Eternity compound works."

Aridi Sin's drug gives Kella total control over Neve. The red sand obliterates any mental barriers between the asari and her target. The AY-Eternity compound intensifies the neural bonds an asari typically establishes with a willing partner for pleasure, procreation, or the expansion of their own knowledge. This drug forged bond opens Neve's mind for invasion.

The model moves fluidly now, naturally. Lips and eyelids spasm as Kella tries manipulating the woman's expression. The asari becomes too focused on Neve's features and her hold on the model's body lapses. Neve's legs buckle. Vaulting over the desk, Vlair catches her before she collapses. Arms encircle his neck. Neve's head rolls up.

"Thank you, Vlair," Kella says with Neve's voice. The asari doesn't have to speak the words herself anymore. She sits back on the couch and smiles.

Once Kella has Neve supporting her own weight, Vlair clasps the model's hands and unwinds her arms from his neck. She squeezes his hands.

"Dance with me."

Swaying, Neve brings his right hand to her waist. When he refuses to move with her she beckons to him again.

"Dance with me, Vlair."

Music trills from the speakers embedded in the walls. A waltz. Kella tucks the media remote into her trouser pocket and gives him an encouraging nod. He shuts his eyes, pictures Kella a mangled heap of tissue and bones at his feet, and obeys.

Swinging Neve around, Vlair pulls her into the waltz. The model's feet skid over the floor as Kella struggles to follow his lead. Soon, the asari finds her rhythm and Neve glides along the floor with him. Then off it.

Air ripples under Vlair's feet and lifts him from the floor. Sudden weightlessness makes his stomach floaty. He and Neve hover a few inches from the ground. Blue energy keeps them aloft. Biotics shimmer over Neve. This is the drug's second effect. Red sand grants temporary biotic abilities to dosers. The Minagen X3 laced in the drug boosts that ability. With the added AY-Eternity compound, Kella channels her biotic talent through Neve like a living battery. The model's electric touch zings him. Kella moulds the woman's features into an expression of utter adoration. Charged hands cup his face and drawn him forward for a kiss.

Neve looks at Vlair as though he's the only man in her world. It's how he's wanted her to see him since he met her, the way all women look at him eventually. But this isn't real. Kella's there behind Neve's eyes. This intimate embrace is hollow. He draws Neve to him anyhow.

Before Vlair's lips touch Neve's, recognition flashes in her eyes. A dark crease forms at the center of her brows when they draw together. Her lips brush his as her head slashes sideways. The slap she deals him rattles his teeth. She shoves out of his arms and the biotic charge that buoys them dissipates. The woman and the asari shriek. Vlair and Neve hit the ground. The model's legs give out. Vlair goes down with her, yanking her to him so her head doesn't crack on the floor. They end up on their knees, Neve slumped against him, out cold.

"Damnit." Kella presses her fingertips to her temples. "She broke the connection."

Vlair draws Neve's hair over her shoulder. Sweat dampens her face and arms. A dark patch stains the back of her dress. Her heart drums at his chest like a fist sized mallet. Kella has funneled too much power into her system.

"This won't work if she fights the connection whenever you force her to do something," Vlair squeezes Neve's arms hard enough that she groans, "she wouldn't normally do."

"It's fine. We'll increase her dose. Take her upstairs. Let her sleep it off."

In Kella's bed, Neve slumbers. Every hour Vlair checks her vitals. He sponges her face, arms, and legs with a damp cloth. The shine set injections haven't worn off. Her skin glows like a celestial being's. His hand closes around her throat. An erratic pulse tics at his thumb. Neve's eyelids flutter. When she comes to, he has already withdrawn his hand. She sits up, blinks, stares at him.

"Oh, my God. We didn't—"

"No." Vlair grinds his teeth behind closed lips. "The leaf went to your head. You've been asleep for four hours."

"Shit." Neve puts a hand to her forehead. "Ugh."

"Shall I hail you a skycar?"

Throwing back the sheet Vlair draped over her, Neve dangles her legs over the side of the bed. "No. I'm fine. Thanks." She stumbles when she stands. Vlair hooks his hand under her arm.

"I'll escort you."

"I'm good. Really."

Vlair's grip constricts around her shoulder. "Dalessia would never forgive me if I left you on your own."

"Fine."

The skycar carrying Neve zips down the skyway. Vlair crosses his arms as its taillights fade in the distance. Before the end of their acquaintance, Neve would look at him like she did in Band Cluster's suite. Without Kella's interference.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Fuck 'Da Police**

The flavored leaf hangover I'm rocking drags out my wakeup routine. Since the shoot starts at nine, I set my alarm for six. Hair and makeup and whatever else Lanaral's team has on my schedule takes time. Showing up early with dry hair will help them out and there's no way I'll be late for my first real modeling gig.

In the shower, my head throbs. A tiny drill bores into my left temple. Bright white flashes in my left eye momentarily blind me. I sway and catch myself on the cool tile wall. That flavored leaf Dalessia scored isn't a mixture I want in my lungs ever again. Besides the migraine and its side effects, a rosy haze fogs my vision for short periods. My surroundings take on a pink glow. Rubbing and letting the shower stream flush my eyes clears my sight.

Minor aches and weirdness won't jeopardize my performance at the shoot, but if it's obvious I'm hungover, my reputation could get scuffed. Industry feeds and gossip sites chow down on behind the scenes drama. If I show up acting like a leaf-lush, that'll be all over the extranet by the end of the day. From now on I have to be careful of what I do and say, especially if the Potential Barriers campaign takes off. Any little thing I do will be feed fodder and held up for scrutiny. At least the status comes with a fuck ton of perks. As soon as the credits and freebies start rolling my way I intend to take full advantage.

Four over-the-counters cushion my pounding head. I suck down a glass of water, pee, and kick my apartment's buggy automatic door until it slides open. The human C-Sec officer waiting for me on the other side _oofs_ when we collide. I bang my forehead on his hardsuit's chest-plate and the effects of the over-the-counters vanish. The heel of my hand goes to my head. I nurse the sore spot between my brows and crack one eye open.

The patrolman checks his datapad. He holds up the device, compares the image on the semi-transparent screen to my face.

"Neve Cezetti?" He scratches his stubbly cheek.

"You need me for something?" That odd rosy tint glazes my sight. I blink over and over, but my vision doesn't clear.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Whatever it is, can you make it quick? I can't be late for work."

"Work's the last thing you have to worry about, ma'am," the patrolman says and cuffs his hand around my right wrist. Seams in his hardsuit's reinforced gloves pinch the delicate skin there. I tug against his hold.

"Are you nuts? What the hell's going on?"

The patrolman reads from the datapad in his free hand.

"You're to report to Zakera Ward's Junction hub under escort for questioning."

I twist my captured wrist.

"Questioning for what? I haven't done anything."

"I'm not authorized to answer that, ma'am, but you should know I am authorized to arrest you if you resist." His hand clamps down on my wrist so hard I squeak.

"You don't understand." The pink tinted patrolman in front of me shimmers. Unshed tears of frustration burn my eyes. "I can't miss this job. My whole life's riding on this." And my mother's life. If I miss Lanaral's shoot I don't get paid and neither does my mom's dealer. She'll get beaten, raped, killed, who knows what and it'll be all my fucking fault.

"You're not going anywhere until you come to the Junction hub for questioning."

The patrolman starts dragging me towards the stairs and I do the stupidest thing I possibly can. With a running leap, I slam my body into his. His hardsuit bruises me, but the unexpected barrage throws the patrolman off kilter. His grip on my wrist slips and I book it to the stairs. My heart races. My thoughts match its pace.

_Just get to the commercial district. Weave through the sub-avenues._

If I can lose C-Sec and make the shoot, I can get the credits to my mom before I turn myself in. Dakan can help me smooth everything over. I'll send him a vid-com request at the site.

A kinetic band collars my arm when I skid onto the stairwell's top platform. The warm energy cuff vibrates at my wrist. An armored hand catches me by the scruff of my neck.

"Neve Cezetti," the patrolman barks, "you are under arrest for obstruction, evasion, and assault of a C-Sec officer." He hauls me back and flings me against the stairwell wall.

Hard tile bashes my head and back. Teeth cut into my tongue. I taste metal. The institutional corridor and the patrolman blur. I shake my head. He has my cuffed arm pinned above me when the world comes back into focus—the pinkish tint persists—and the air whooshes from my lungs when he rams into me. A strangled cry wheezes from my mouth.

The patrolman fumbles with the second glowing cuff. Once he gets it around my other wrist, that's it. I'll be effectively immobilized from the waist up and escape would be pointless. I bow my head and grit my teeth.

How does this always happen? Whenever my life takes a turn for the better, the gigantic fingers of god or fate descend and flick me off the mountain I've scaled.

Not this time.

The pink haze over my vision fades to deep red. A tingling patch spreads over my forehead. My skull vibrates like the kinetic band about my wrist. The pins-and-needles sensation courses from my head down my spine, flows into my limbs. An energy laced shiver ripples through me. All the fine hairs on my body stand up. Something warm and wet trickles from my nose and the pounding beat at my temples grows unbearable. Blue flame licks off the uncuffed arm the patrolman wrestles from my side.

"Shit," he says and I can't hold back.

Anger and power and pressure build within me and I can't control it. I scream.

Molten heat shoots down my uncuffed arm. A thousand rubber bands snap against my upturned palm as raw power erupts from my hand. The blast blows the patrolman into the opposite wall. A concussive wave rolls over and suffocates me. When it dissipates, I collapse. On my hands and knees, I pant. My muscles are after-the-flu weak and my bones ache. Zaps of electricity spark from my pores. Groaning ahead of me makes me lift my head.

The patrolman's on his side, crumpled near the wall. He grunts and tries sitting up, flails for the Stinger holstered at his side. The weapon's sec-band clicks open.

_If you don't get up you're getting shot._

Using the wall for support, I force myself to my feet and hobble down the stairs.

"F-Freeze," the patrolman shouts, but I'm already around the bend separating each flight of stairs. He can't hit me with a wall providing cover.

I gain momentum as I clatter down the last flight of steps. Some of my strength returns. The patrolman's booming footfalls echo in the stairwell as I stumble onto the avenue. I catch myself on a C-Sec up-cart idling in front of the residential complex. The patrolman doesn't have a partner or they'd be sitting in the cart ready to provide backup.

"Neve!" Allegra's voice rings out over the avenue. She leans over our balcony's guard rail, eyes doe-wide.

The patrolman bursts from the stairwell's exit, brandishing his Stinger. "Stop. Don't move!"

Shoving off the up-cart boosts my speed. I sprint down the avenue, heels clicking on the tile. Masculine and feminine shouts chase me. Though I no longer see red, the ground lurches underfoot as I run. I weave the way the terrain tosses me, claw and shove off the walls I bump into.

A sharp report from behind doesn't slow me down.

The kinetic slug's impact does.

An energy round hammers me between my shoulder blades. I pitch forward and belly-flop onto the avenue. Crackling blue tentacles loop and bind my limbs and torso. The Stinger web's non-lethal charge paralyzes me. Muscles strain and seize. My jaw clenches. Brilliant flashes obliterate the avenue and the blocks of residential complexes. I try lifting my head and pass out.

The darkness is cold and quiet.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: I Abducted You So I Tell You What To Do**

I regain consciousness in an interrogation room. At least, this is what interrogation rooms look like in procedural vids.

Shadows darkening the edges of my vision fade as I come to. The harsh overheads make me squint. There's a desk in front of the chair I'm strapped to—I figure that out when I try moving my arms and legs—with a human man seated behind it. The human taps on a light key console traced on the desktop. Overlong brown hair in need of a good scrubbing veils his eyes. Stubble carpets his pointed chin. He touches a comm-link at his ear.

"She's awake."

"What's happening?" I test the kinetic bands vibrating at my wrists and ankles. They're quite secure. "Where am I?"

The scuffle with the C-Sec officer comes back to me all at once. How long did the Stinger put me down? My vision isn't rosy anymore and my headache's gone. Twisting in my seat, I evaluate what I can of my arms and legs. Pink lashes on my forearms are slicked with omni-gel. Stinger webs aren't lethal, but they're still painful. I've been out long enough to get treated and transported here.

The man glances at me over the interface and chews his bottom lip. He ducks and continues keying in data. The room's automatic door _snicks_ open. A turian in a C-Sec hardsuit enters carrying a datapad. When the man starts scrambling out of his chair, the turian waves the datapad at him.

"Stay there. I need you to queue up the vid and uplink the information packets I need to my pad."

"Right, right," the man mumbles and awaits the turian's orders.

"Someone can fill me in anytime," I say.

The turian leans on the desk's front edge and scans the information on his datapad's display.

"Ms. Cezetti, I apologize for the restraints. The discharge of pent up biotic energy on Shalta Ward should have depleted your temporary stores, but the precautions are necessary for our protection. I'm detective Chellik and I'll be conducting your interview."

"Wait, wait." If I could move my hand I'd be pinching the bridge of my nose. "I don't have any energy stores to deplete. I'm not a biotic."

"Officer Huminik's internal bruising begs to differ as do these lab results on your blood-work." He holds the datapad before my face so I can read it.

_Traces of red sand present…_

"That's impossible. I'm not a doser and certainly not a sand blaster."

"And yet your levels come back positive." Detective Chellik pulls the pad away. "Our processing labs don't make rookie mistakes. Is it possible someone laced your food? Drink?"

Impossible, unless someone spiked the stale savory buns Dakan bought me or poisoned the ward cisterns. I didn't have dinner last night because I passed out at Dalessia's after her flavored leaf mixture knocked me out. My mouth hangs open on that thought. Flavored leaf has never affected me like that, but Dalessia wouldn't have—

"Something on your mind?" Chellik's white painted brow plates go up.

"No. Look, I'm sorry about the scene at my complex. Could we get this over with? I have a shoot at nine I'd like to make."

"You should have considered that before you attacked one of my officers. It's noon, Ms. Cezetti. You can stop worrying about your shoot. We have plenty of time."

"Fuck." I bang my head on the back of the chair and blame my tears on the ache at the base of my skull. "Fuck!" My lips press together and I squinch my eyes shut. "Why am I even here?" When the turian chuckles, I add, "Besides the assault and evasion?"

The detective angles himself toward the human. "Technician Caruso, the vid, please."

The human arranges the display setting icons on the desktop interface. The semi-transparent screen becomes opaque and a vid player window pops up on the side of the pane facing me. The vid starts. I'm on it. So is Dakan. He stands beside my bed and plays with my foot, then his head's between my legs, then the me shackled to the chair looks away.

"That's called 'private,'" I tell my lap.

"Detective Tallen didn't think so."

"And who's detective Tallen?" I pick up my head in time to see myself go down on Dakan. On the vid, he cranes his neck and tips back his head in ecstasy. His hips tilt toward my mouth. I gnaw the inside of my cheek and dig my nails into my palms. Acting is my second best talent. I've had a long time to practice pretending none of this bothers me, that it doesn't twist me up inside knowing an intimate moment of mine is a show for these two men.

"The turian you're, ah," Chellik taps a talon to his mandible, "what do humans call that, Caruso?"

The human doesn't make eye contact with either of us when he says, "Fellating."

"Yes, thank you. He's the turian you're fellating."

"No." I shake my head. "That's patrolman Dakan Karakik."

Chellik cough-laughs into his fist. "Did he tell you that before or after he paid you to do," he cocks his head at the screen, "that?"

Clenching my teeth, I glare at the turian detective. "He didn't _pay_ me for anything."

"Not in credits perhaps, but," Chellik signals technician Caruso who uploads information to the turian's datapad. "We have amplifly records here of the detective skirting arrest procedure on your behalf."

"I didn't trade sexual favors for special treatment."

The turian saunters over to my chair and leans over me. "I've got a lot of evidence here to the contrary. I could book you right now for possession of a controlled substance and unlicensed solicitation on top of assault and evasion."

Behind him, Dakan and I have moved on to the main act. Watching an alien work me over is strange. That's not how I felt when we were together.

"I'm not a whore," I say.

Chellik studies me a moment, then says, "No, I don't think you are. That doesn't change your unfortunate predicament." He requests the rest of the data packets from technician Caruso and dismisses the human. When the door seals behind the technician, the turian continues.

"To be honest, Ms. Cezetti, I believe you're ignorant of your situation. Detective Tallen," he gestures at the turian collapsed next to me on my bed, "is my lead investigator on the NOVA project. Do you know anything about NOVA?"

I've seen a few segments on ANN's feed and the universal broadcasts.

"Aren't they terrorists or something?"

"A highly organized smuggling ring. They also take on assassination contracts for pay or to further their own agendas."

"What do a bunch of thieves and murders have to do with me?"

"I believe you're one of their chameleon operatives."

This time, I laugh. "You've got the wrong woman."

"Dalessia Kella doesn't seem to think so."

I snort. "You think my agent is in with NOVA?"

"No. I _know_ your agent _is_ NOVA. She is to the organization what Aria is to Omega. Dangerous, deadly, and connected to a lot of people who can do her dirty work. And, unlike Aria, Dalessia panders to the universal socio-political scene. She hides in plain sight."

C-Sec doesn't make bluffs like that to some nobody dancer with one upscale media job successfully blown. The thought makes me wince. All those credits from my modeling fee are gone. The chair I'm in squeaks when I fidget.

_What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do? I have to get out of here. There's still time to pawn everything of value I own._

Whatever this detective wants I'll give it to him as long as he lets me go. He's watching the vid. Dakan and I start at the beginning of our liaison.

"Your connection to Kella made you a valuable asset to detective Tallen," he says.

Is Chellik telling the truth about Dakan? Why would Dakan lie about his rank at C-Sec and his name? I nod at the vid I wish he'd shut off.

"You keep your own people under surveillance?"

Chellik's mandibles hug his jaws. "I would if I suspected them of wrongdoing. Detective Tallen's record was clean. I had no reason."

"Then how did you get this vid?"

"From detective Tallen's case files, of course."

The pieces click into place.

I met Dakan when he white-knighted for me after Razorback and his crew followed me from Shadow Matter. The same night of my impromptu audition for Dalessia Kella. If Dakan's investigating the asari, he'd have her under surveillance. He must have seen me with her that night. My connection to her would give him an excellent stream of insider information.

I hang my head. My heart is a heavy lump of iron, sore in my chest. Dakan's interest in my follow up audition and booking had nothing to do with me or my career. He wanted information. So, what was the sex? An afterthought?

_A perk_, I tell myself. Dakan's rank probably comes with lots of them. I don't get weepy about it, but I hate the way my breath hitches when I inhale. The way I feel hot all over and the way I shake.

Chellik observes me all the while I put one, two, and three together. His arms are folded over his chest and his mandibles twitch. When I don't offer anything, he picks up the interrogation.

"The way I see it, Ms. Cezetti, you're the victim here." The turian detective reads off his datapad. "And it seems to me you've been a victim of circumstance a long time."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I grit out.

I may be tied to a chair in a C-Sec interrogation room, but I'm no victim. The daggers I stare at Chellik should get my point across.

"You and your family have been cleaning up after Lena Hopenhower-Cezetti for most of her life and all of yours."

"Family takes care of family."

"As a turian, I respect that. We're believers in never leaving anyone behind. We're also believers in everyone pulling their own weight. You've been pulling far more than your own."

Groaning, I let my head drape over the back of my chair as Chellik scrolls through the info on his datapad. I'm quite familiar with my personal history. I don't need it narrated to me, but Chellik loves the sound of his dual vocals. What a diva.

"Your grandmother raised you. During your time with her she bailed her daughter out of jail and kept her in rehab when she could. Lena took custody of you after your grandmother died. You moved to New York where she worked as a high priced pro."

"That job kept me in private school," I say to the ceiling.

"Yes, I see you led a privileged life for almost a decade. Your mother met and eventually married media mogul Allen Cezetti. He adopted you and moved you both into his luxury condominiums."

Those were the best years of my life. Allen was a fantastic dad. Mom kept her drug use to a recreational level even after leaving Bisbekbi Talent Services. Dance, ballet especially, has always been my passion. In Manhattan, Allen's connections and money paired with my skill got me into the School of American Ballet. I had my sights set on the New York City Ballet corps and eventual stardom as a principle dancer. I had everything I ever wanted

"But that privileged life wasn't without problems, was it?" Chellik asks.

I sneer at him. "Of course not. Nothing is."

"Allen Cezetti's parents, his father in particular, drove a wedge between you all, didn't they?"

They certainly tried. Allen's dad, Joe, never liked me or my mom. He knew my mom was a whore and didn't think trash like us deserved the Cezetti name.

"There's nothing wrong with picking up some tramp from the gutter," I heard Joe say once when I crept passed Allen's study. "As long as you throw them back."

Nothing Joe said changed how Allen felt about my mom. They loved each other and they loved Manhattan's night life and they loved me. I made them proud with my dancing. Allen never shut up about it.

"You should see her up on her toes and jumping so high. Incredible!" The brandy sloshed out of his tumbler when he gesticulated. Mom patted dry the sleeve of his tailored suit.

We should have lived happily ever after.

Chellik notices my wriggling hands and feet. Crouching, he checks the kinetic bands at my wrists and ankles. A number of taps to his omni-tool's interface loosens the cuffs. I can't get an arm or a foot free, but the feeling floods into my extremities. My fingers and toes tingle, then prickle.

"This interview will be over soon, Ms. Cezetti. We'll get you out of that chair." Chellik says as he resumes his position in front of me.

"And into a cell?"

"That depends on your answers to my next few questions."

_Of course._ I roll my eyes.

"After Allen Cezetti's death, Earth's records on you are spotty. You're not listed in your adoptive father's will. Neither is his wife. What happened to you?"

I tell him.

My senior year at SAB, Allen developed brain cancer. He didn't hang on long after diagnosis. As his mind and health deteriorated, so did my mom's tenuous hold on her addictions. High and holed in her room, mom hid herself from a husband who no longer recognized her and Joe swooped in with his battalion of super lawyers to direct his son's ruined faculties. Mom and I were drafted out of the will. Allen went in the ground. We went into the street. The money we had came from what jewelry, fur coats, and luxury tech I'd ferreted from our condo to the pawn shop when I understood there'd be no New York City Ballet corps and no broken family mourning and healing together.

Chellik strokes one of his mandibles. "That explains it. The last records we have of you on Earth are forms from a waitress job and a dancing job you took shortly after Allen Cezetti's death. Then your transfer application to the Citadel and your relocation records."

At one of the shelters where mom and I stayed that first week after we lost Allen and our borrowed wealth, a counselor tried taking me under her wing.

"You can't keep all this inside you, Neve. You have to talk about it. Get that pain out of you. You'll feel better."

That counselor meant well, but she was wrong. In this interrogation room, the telling of the tale is no easier than the first time I told it.

"I took those jobs after my mom got picked up for blowing some guy in his car. I promised I'd take care of her. I relocated when I had the credits because dancing out here pays more than dancing down there."

Pacing behind his desk, Chellik sits, tosses his datapad aside, and switches off the p-interface separating us. He laces his talons on the desktop.

"If you weren't transferring credits to your mother every month you wouldn't have to live like you do. You could let her fend for herself."

"I'm not that sort of person." The hard metal chair hurts my butt. I shift in my seat. The new position is no more comfortable than my prior position.

"That's to my benefit. I have enough documentation here to book you for unlicensed solicitation regardless of the facts."

"That won't hold up in a hearing."

Fact is, Chellik might have me fucking one of his people on camera, but all he's got is fraternization which isn't illegal. Dakan never gave me any credits, so Chellik can't have a record of a transaction or footage of me offering to suck off Dakan for his favor.

"It doesn't have to, does it?" Chellik asks.

No. Not when I think about it. A publicized unlicensed solicitation charge will raze my reputation. There's a slim chance I can salvage the shoot with Lanaral. If Band Cluster really is a NOVA front that C-Sec shuts down, there are hundreds of agencies that'll take me. My foot's in the door. I can come back from a lot. An unlicensed solicitation charge is not one of those things. No reputable agency will touch me with that sort of baggage. And if that vid of me and Dakan hits the extranet? I shudder.

"I'm screwed is what you're telling me, right?"

"Not yet," Chellik says. "I'd rather book Kella than one of her chameleon operatives. I can't do that without hard evidence which I can't get without someone who has access to her."

"I can't just ask her about NOVA."

"You won't have to. I want you to wear a wire. All we need is a connection. Just one. She may give us that during her interactions with you."

Sucking on my upper lip keeps me from cursing. "Our next conversation might be short considering I may have lost her an important client."

"That's not your concern. Wear the wire and speak with Kella once and no charges will be brought against you. But," Chellik leans forward, "if you remain in her company and continue wearing the wire and the information you bring us leads to Kella's arrest and conviction, C-Sec will cover your mother's relocation and residence fees to the Citadel. We'll make sure she's safe and gets treatment at one of the best facilities on the wards."

The offer dangles before me like a bright lure. I'm a guppy circling a shiny and irresistible hook. Do I want fame and more credits than I know what to do with? Yeah. I also want security, stability. Credits get me that and fame gets me credits. Pursuing fame will be a lot easier if my mom's taken care of. I'd sacrifice Dalessia for that.

"I'll wear your wire," I say.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: Take This Job And Shove It**

The presentation to the Executor Pallin couldn't have gone better if Dakan had had an extra day of prep time. As he entered the Junction hub he yawned. His mandibles stretched wide. Their attaching joints cracked. It was almost three PM. He'd been up since nine yesterday morning. Once he checked in with Chellik he could go home and hibernate until his noon shift tomorrow.

Dakan hugged the presentation materials and the datapad containing the Executor-signed formal request. When Chellik suggested Dakan give the presentation by himself Dakan's heart-rate had faltered. That was a sign of ultimate trust from the senior detective. Perhaps Dakan would make partner in the coming year. His mandibles fluttered and his talons drummed a peppy rhythm on the datapad. Senior detective Tallen had such a prestigious ring to it. After he made a pit stop at his desk and dropped off the presentation materials he'd fire a message to the senior detective and set up a meeting.

As Dakan strutted to the rear of the hub, head held high, the senior detective in question emerged from the back suite of offices. Squaring his shoulders, Dakan straightened his posture and strode towards Chellik. They could meet right now.

Four paces from his goal, Dakan skidded to a halt. There, at Chellik's side, was Neve. For an instant, their eyes met and for once, Neve's expressive human features betrayed almost nothing. Puffy, red skin under her eyes suggested tears and the tight set of her jaw, anger. Her face, however, was a cipher. Chellik spoke to her while they walked.

"Report back tomorrow at ten AM for the wire implantation. It's a minor procedure and painless."

"I've heard that before," Neve muttered. She tossed her head and stared at the row of occupied desks to her left.

A datapad and document stuffed file she clutched drew Dakan's attention. What was she doing here? What was she doing with Chellik?

"Detective Tallen." The contempt in the senior detective's secondary vocals was just audible which meant he intended Dakan hear it. "I assume the presentation went as planned. Report to my office for debrief. I'll join you as soon as I see Ms. Cezetti out."

The presentation materials Dakan cradled almost slipped from his grasp. He swallowed though his mouth and throat were dry. Chellik had used his real name and rank in front of Neve and she didn't appear surprised. When she met his gaze again he read accusation there.

"Pleasure to see you again, _detective_," she said and her pointed tone provoked Dakan's action.

Hefting the load he carried into one arm, Dakan reached for Neve. She flinched.

"Neve." His strained vocals strangled her name. His hand hovered in the air between them.

Chellik nudged her back with his knuckles. "Go ahead, Ms. Cezetti."

When his dancer started forward, Dakan lurched for her. He could explain this, make it right, if she'd listen. The senior detective caught him. Talons squeaked over Dakan's armored shoulders. Chellik's mandibles flared and he bared his teeth.

"My office, detective. Now."

Air hissed from Dakan's nostrils. His head fringe tipped halfway up before he realized he challenged his direct superior like a bond mate rival. Disentangling from Chellik, Dakan shook himself and retreated. Neve was already gone. Whatever happened while he met with the Executor had likely lost him the woman that made him want to be more.

* * *

_I should have messaged her when I had the chance_, Dakan thought and plopped in one of the seats before Chellik's desk. The remnants of their all-nighter surrounded him.

Brainstorming notes and doodled security diagrams covered the standing screens and mark boards at the far end of the senior detective's office. Grease patched, takeout boxes cluttered the low table near the sofa. Copies of Udina's social schedule and projections of possible NOVA maneuvers Networks churned out covered Chellik's desk. Some tech collated the data from former NOVA headed or executed assassinations. Dakan set his presentation materials and datapad atop the paperwork.

The night he spent working with Chellik revealed how similar he and the senior detective's thought processes were. They both had a knack for strategy and where one was blind to a vulnerability or unconsidered issue, the other compensated. Toiling alongside his superior brought them closer. That's what Dakan had thought, but this project and the presentation to Pallin had been part misdirection.

Occupied with structuring the security detail and with the Executor, Dakan had no time for Neve. He'd been so damned proud when Chellik singled him out that he hadn't suspected any ulterior motive. He covered his face with his hands, dug his talons into his head fringe. He should have suspected. Sam's warning about officer Karakik going to the senior detective about Neve should have been enough. Dakan didn't think Karakik actually had the quad to go through with it so, he put off contacting her.

Softening the gut punch of truth his confession would deal her was no longer viable. He was in full on relationship salvage mode. He had to get to Neve before she had hours to stew over his betrayal. Figuring out how much she knew about him and about NOVA would be helpful too. When Chellik entered his office, Dakan had his own set of objectives defined. They would distract him from the inevitable reaming he was about to take.

Quiet as he assumed his place behind his workstation, Chellik sat and plucked Dakan's datapad from the mass of papers blanketing his desktop. Citrus colored light from the display gleamed off the senior detective's metallic face plates.

"I see you aquired the Executor's approval," Chellik said. "Did he make any changes to the proposal?" The senior detective's primary and secondary vocals were carefully neutral.

"No."

The Executor approved a team of six patrolmen on rotation schedule at the ambassador's luxury resplex. Two patrolmen would be embedded at Udina's office and a four man stealth squad would shadow him at all upcoming public appearances. Partnered techs would comb the extranet for red-flag information and would monitor incoming and outgoing communiqués from Udina's personal and professional sigs. A copy of the proposal would be hand delivered to the ambassador by Pallin himself. The Executor praised Dakan and Chellik's thoroughness. Dakan passed his compliments on to his superior.

Chellik tapped his chin. "Then the only alteration we'll work around is the hierarchy change to the stealth squad."

"What hierarchy change?"

Had Dakan missed something in Pallin's brief?

"Mine," Chellik said. "You will no longer take point on the stealth team. We'll have officer Sirrus in that position."

Dakan clenched the chair's armrests. "If I may, sir, why the last minute change? My undercover experience and stealth skills are—"

"Under review." The datapad Chellik held dropped on his desk. "As is your standing in C-Sec and your citizenship level."

The room slid off kilter. A fit of light headedness beset Dakan. Disorientation subsided when he lowered and clutched his head.

From his doubled over posture, he said, "This is about Neve."

"It is." Revulsion bled into Chellik's subvocals and invaded his primaries as he went on. "Your behavior with that human is an affront to this organization and to your turian blood."

Dakan jerked up at that.

Turians of high rank and citizenship level were, on the whole, cautious with their public views regarding humanity. Outright hostility was kept private. Humans weren't going anywhere. Sowing dissent against the species was counter-productive for the turian hierarchy. Turian policy encouraged discretion when it came to anti-human sentiment even at the turian-turian level. Chellik's condemnation of Dakan's relationship with Neve from a species perspective, while not unsurprising, was a serious shot to the lower plates.

The senior detective gripped the edge of his desk. His arms shook. The extended position of his mandibles exposed every dagger-sharp tooth. When Chellik spoke, he words were half-snarled.

"You sacrificed a prime lead on Dalessia Kella for a piece of extraterrestrial ass. You risked our mission and C-Sec's reputation because you couldn't keep it behind your plates. Had your _indiscretion_ been discovered by external parties, the hierarchy's standing would have taken yet another plunge. You placed yourself, your priorities, before the whole's. I would have fired you outright, but another turian scandal is a scandal we don't need."

_Thank the spirits for that_, Dakan thought.

"You'll keep your rank and current pay-rate for the duration of the eval process. Your duties will be limited and your access to C-Sec funds and equipment has been terminated." Chellik's nose crinkled when he sneered. "We don't release tube cams for personal use. Film your skin-vids on your own equipment."

Skin-vids? Dakan's brow plates went up. He'd never planted the tube cam. He'd—

A quiet growl escaped Dakan before he clamped a hand over his mouth. The tube cam was in Neve's apartment. He'd dropped it in her makeup case when she'd startled him. All his fiddling with the device must have activated it. The stranglehold he had on his chair's arms kept him from fidgeting.

"How many copies of the vid are there?" He asked.

"Two," Chellik said. "We have the original. Technician Caruso was kind enough to make a copy for Ms. Cezetti as part of our arrangement. The original will be deleted when our business is concluded."

Neve saw the vid. She thought Dakan filmed them on purpose and so did his boss. Explaining the reality of the vid's creation would come across as back-peddling and the truth would only reinforce his established incompetence when it came to Neve. With a twist of his head, Dakan accepted the situation and began devising a best and worst case scenario. Chellik spread his hands.

"Have you any other questions, _detective_?" The last word came out like the punch line of a joke. Dakan wiped any emotion from his vocals when he replied.

"No, sir. You've been very clear."

"Then I'm sure you have a bit of damage control on your agenda today." Chellik gestured at the door.

After a curt nod, Dakan exited the office. At his desk, he grounded himself, sorted the myriad thoughts, worries, and bits of information he'd gathered into a semblance of order. The objectives he'd set at the beginning of the meeting, with the exception of the depth of Neve's knowledge about NOVA and Dalessia Kella, had mostly been met. He knew the following:

His real name and rank were no longer a secret.

Neve had seen the unfortunate vid and considered the filming a deliberate act.

Chellik negotiated a deal with the dancer.

Sam was somehow involved.

In one day he'd managed to lose Neve and, possibly, his job.

There was nothing he could do about his pending evaluation, but he didn't have to sit there and let Neve slip through his talons. If he had time, he'd pay Sam a visit, discover how Chellik roped him in to this fiasco. Information gave him power, but collecting it put more distance between himself and Neve. He had to get to her apartment before she decided she never wanted to see him again. If she hadn't already.

* * *

_Author's Note: Happy Holidays guys!_


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Try To Let You Go But It's Not That Easy**

This made the third time Dakan tried calling Neve. The connection icon on his omni-tool cycled its animation for close to a minute then flashed its termination signal. She'd rejected all of his calls. Sighing, he slumped against her door, put his ear to the versaplast. No sound came through the barrier. That didn't mean she wasn't home.

"Neve," he shouted and pounded on her door until his fist numbed. "Please answer me!"

"Would you shut the hell up!"

Dakan spun. Neve emerged from the stairwell with a salarian in tow. The glowing blast graffiti embedded in the corridor wall washed them in blue violet light.

"We can hear you all the way down the block," she said and bumped him out of her way when he was too stunned to move.

Hurrying the bewildered salarian inside, she slipped through her front door and jammed her thumb on the interior scanner so Dakan couldn't follow. The door closed halfway, then stuck. Mechanisms powering the entrance clicked uselessly.

"For fuck's sake," Neve said, punted the door, and stormed further inside.

Dakan hung around in the half open entryway and worried his talons together. With her door open like this, anyone could barge in. A broken door in a inhabited resplex was a neon sign to criminals that read _Break In Here!_ Human dominant blocks in the wards were heavily patrolled during their sleep cycle. Crime spiked during those hours. Dakan yawned and blinked his aching eyes. He could do with his own sleep cycle. Neve's voice drifted to him from the depths of her apartment.

"I've done a hard wipe on all the databanks and disconnected the extraware from my sig ID. Only thing on here is the original OS."

Peering around the open door, Dakan caught the transaction's conclusion. The orange skinned salarian crouched and packed Neve's power terminal, interface frame, and console sensors into a handled case he toted. In exchange, he handed over a single standard quantity credit chit.

"Thanks. This is fantastic," he said and while the salarian finished loading up Neve's p-terminal, Dakan inventoried the rest of her apartment.

Empty spaces gapped Neve's shelving, her counter, and desktop. A layman wouldn't have noticed, but Dakan's eye for detail processed the altered scenery. Besides her recently packed p-terminal, all the game discs on her desktop had vanished. The holo-album where she stored her pictures and dance vids was gone too.

_Did she wipe all that data like she had her terminal?_ Dakan wondered as he visually combed the rest of her living space. Something about the third platform on her standing shelf was off. He couldn't put his talon on what. The objects on that tier were out of order and toppled. Another larger object used to prop them up. But what was it? Dakan squinted. A box perhaps?

"Excuse me." The salarian stood in front of the cracked door Dakan blocked. Lower lids momentarily shuttered his glittering, black eyes.

"Ah, my apologies," Dakan said and moved aside so the alien could pass. Once the salarian entered the stairwell, Dakan resumed his place.

With her back to her uncluttered desktop, Neve sat and flipped the credit chit over and over in one hand. Dakan wasn't sure she noticed him until she spoke.

"If I report you to C-Sec, will they drag your sorry ass out of my resplex?" Neve glowered at him. Judging by the way her knuckles whitened around the chit, he imagined its edges cut into her palm. He scratched the underside of his fringe.

"They might."

If Chellik monitored the incident feeds he might send an officer to pick Dakan up out of spite.

Neve fisted her right hand. Had she worn a hand guard the motion would have set off her action gem. The practical model she'd purchased from Q-Ping Communications was gone. Releasing a frustrated growl, she clawed her fingers through her hair and yanked at her dark mane.

"I knew I shouldn't have sold that damn thing," she grumbled.

"Is that why you haven't been accepting my calls?"

Pushing herself standing, Neve said, "One of the lesser reasons, I guess. I don't have an omni-tool anymore. Or a terminal. I'm public access dependant at the moment." The look she leveled at him could have lasered through kinetic shields and three layers of military grade armor. "Not that I would accept your fucking calls regardless."

Dakan gulped and did a nervous two-step outside her door.

"Why are your things gone?" He asked.

"You're the detective. Don't you already know every little thing about me? Your boss sure does." Neve lazed over to her fridge. Items inside rattled when she opened the door and surveyed the contents. A scowl marred her features. She slammed the coolant unit shut and pawed at the mass of papers and curios atop her island.

The makeup case where Dakan had dropped the tube cam was overturned. Compacts and lipsticks and brushes hid under the gutted innards of Chellik's case file. One careless bump of Neve's elbow would send the senior detective's datapad toppling over the side of the countertop. Dakan bowed his head and squeezed the doorframe. This was it. If he wanted a second chance with Neve, this was the time for honesty.

"I don't know everything about you. In fact, I know pitifully little. I know you're a talented dancer and a driven, tenacious woman. I know you want more than life's dealt you and I know you're involved with dangerous people," Dakan raised his head, "and I wanted to protect you."

The tube cam flying at his face blocked his view of Neve. He weaved out of the direct line of fire. The device struck the versaplast shell armoring his back, ricocheted off his hardsuit, and arched over the balcony. When he twisted back towards the door, Neve' rage contorted face met his.

"How exactly does filming us fucking protect me?"

Blocking his face with his arms, Dakan backed into the corridor until he collided with the balcony.

"I-I-I—"

Neve wriggled through her front door when fiddling with the interior and exterior control panels produced no results. She stumbled over the threshold and caught herself on the doorframe. The look she gave Dakan once she brushed herself off said, _I'm waiting._

Dakan shoved off the balcony, but gave Neve a generous allowance of personal space. He formed his words carefully so he wouldn't stutter.

"I only helped you in the beginning because you had an in with Dalessia Kella."

Scoffing, Neve crossed her arms and leaned against the wall of the resplex. Dakan padded closer.

"I bugged your purse," he said and Neve's eyes widened. "And I meant to place the camera in your apartment, but then I got to know you and realized I couldn't spy on you while we dated. The tube cam was an accident. I dropped it in your place when we spent the night together. I was going to tell you everything yesterday, but Chellik called me in and I got distracted with my job and I know that none of that makes up for anything I've put you through, but I really like you. A lot." Dakan kneaded his hands in front of his chest. "Do you think you can forgive me?"

Neve scrubbed the hand that clutched her credit chit over her reddening face.

"Forgive you?" She hugged herself, dug her fingertips into her arms. Her eyes glistened and tears trickled from beneath her lids when they squinched shut. Gusty laughter spread her mouth wide. "Forgive you?! I don't even know you." She glared at him and rubbed the surface of her credit shit with her thumb. Passing the back of her hand under her snuffly nose, she gave her head a shake, and strode off down the corridor.

"Where are you going?" Dakan tagged after her. She stopped short and he nearly tread on her heels. Held before Neve's face, the credit chit flashed when it caught the blast graffiti's light.

"I'm either going to get food, flavored leaf, or really cheap booze." Neve tossed the chit and snatched it out of the air. "Haven't decided if I'd rather be full or plastered."

Dakan reached over her shoulder. "Let me go. I'll get it."

Food. She needed food. Liquor or drugs in this state could cause her even more damage. His talons brushed her hand and she flinched at his touch, rounded on him.

"You don't get it, do you?" She shoved at his breastplate. He paced back. "Doing my errands or whatever little favors you can think of isn't going to fix this." Neve wasn't weeping anymore, but her flushed cheeks were still damp and her eyes were glassy. She drove her finger into his hardsuit, punctuating each syllable of her next statement. "You. Invaded. My. Privacy. You violated me. You used me." Her head wilted. Hands fisted in hair she yanked. A stuttered sob made her chest heave. "You used me and I found out after I already liked you." She started shaking so violently her teeth chattered and she couldn't speak anymore.

Reaching out, Dakan hesitated, then placed his hands on her shoulders. Neve stiffened under his touch, but didn't shake him off.

"E-everything's all con-confused," Neve stammered and sniffled. "I like you, but you fucked me over."

Dakan closed his eyes and his head fell back. A silent prayer of thanks went to the spirits. Neve liked him. She still liked him. There was the tiniest hope he could re-earn her trust. He wanted to pull her close but he didn't dare. Instead, he gave her shoulders a squeeze.

"Neve, I swear to you, once I understood how much I cared for you, I terminated the audio feeds coming off that surveillance chip I planted and I know it's hard to believe, but the tube cam was an accident."

"Yeah, you're right." Neve twisted from his hold. "It is pretty fucking hard to believe. You'd say anything right now to get back in my pants." She glared at him and Dakan balled his fists, returned the expression.

"I'd say and do anything to get back in your life." Dakan's shout echoed in the silence that followed. Neve's bottom lip quavered and she stared at the avenue below them. "I want to know you and I want to help you if you'll let me."

Head jerking up, Neve squinted at the neighboring resplex across the sub-avenue. Dakan aimed his focus in that direction. On a darkened balcony in the adjacent complex, a black shape slid further into the shadows. Noise from their argument was bound to draw attention. With the heels of her hands, Neve rubbed her eyes.

"Let's get back inside before we wake the whole block," she said.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: It's The Hard Knock Life For Us**

Shadows cloak Vlair as he recedes from the balcony. Neve is still visible. So is the turian. They peer at the space where he hides. He doesn't move. Leaving his position for a better vantage of the pair is a mistake he won't repeat, but he could hear them better from the balcony. He tugs at the fine cuff of his outerskin jacket. The turian Neve's with wears a C-Sec hardsuit.

_What's she doing cozying up to a C-Sec officer?_

Human and turian move to Neve's door. The dancer shouts something unintelligible at the officer and shoves herself through the jammed entrance. The turian lingers before her door, arms outstretched. In the darkness, Vlair folds his arms. He must get closer, must discover what these two are about.

Weak mumbling to his left snaps Vlair's head in that direction. He scans the gloom. Light shafting into the outer corridor from the sub-avenue is enough to reveal a sour smelling bundle of blankets and debris. Someone's cocooned in there. No one that's a threat to Vlair. He returns his attention to the spat in progress on the opposing balcony. The C-Sec turian is stuck in Neve's doorway. His bulky, dorsal shell wedges in the opening. Gloved fists hammer the door until it springs back. The turian splats inside and the entrance seals shut. With the pair of them indoors, Vlair can leave cover.

A touch to his hanguard's action gem powers Vlair's omni-tool. He pulls a pane from its brilliant interface and puts a call in to Kella. The asari blinks on screen. Her eyes narrow at him. One hand at the side of her face toys with a half-smoked self-rolled. Her crisp blouse is unbuttoned at the collar.

"Well?" She asks and flicks a plug of ash from her self-rolled.

After Lanaral's call to Kella's suite that afternoon, the asari sent Vlair on a recon run. In a few hours—longer than it regularly took him to track a target—he'd found Neve scurrying about the Lower Markets, harassing sales roamers with a sack stuffed with human trinkets, second rate tech, and a mass of game discs. Bit by bit she'd sold off her possessions. The credit chits she'd collected chattered together in her bag as he'd shadowed her. The deposit she'd made at a public access terminal on Shalta Ward had gone straight to Earth along with a vid message. She'd pressed the transmit icon and had collapsed over the terminal. Whatever had made her eyes so red she'd rubbed away and had sought out another sales roamer to bark her price for her p-terminal. Her reasons for abandoning the shoot hadn't been clear, but this turian C-Sec officer…he likely played a major role in her defection.

"So, what are you doing reporting to me?" Kella spits. "Find out what C-Sec wants with her. That turian could be connected to the raid on our Omega facilities."

Vlair closes his eyes and waits out the surge of emotion that pounds at his temples, then speaks. "Protocol stipulates I contact you before taking further action with any public or privately retained enforcement officials."

"And I approve further action." The asari stubs out her self-rolled off screen. "Do whatever you deem necessary to gather whatever intelligence we need. I have to deal with this data transmission error." She flings her hand at something Vlair can't see. "When we have Neve under thumb remind me to terminate our transportation contract with Aridi Sin. I want them on production only from now on. One of their reps sent an unencrypted shipping manifest to my p-sig."

Lowering the volume on his omni-tool, Vlair asks, "What was on the manifest?" He has trouble modulating his vocals. This clerical error could be the leverage he needsto oust Kella from her throne. The asari's response is well out of most species' auditory range. Only another drell could hear it or someone with genetic or cybernetic boosts to their senses.

"Besides the newest batches of AY-Eternity blended red sand?" Kella swipes the curve of her bottom lip with her thumb. "Our generous donor."

Vlair almost chuckles. An idiot rep at Aridi Sin put an Ardat-Yakshi on a shipping manifest. He has a hunch it was a turian and shoots Neve's door a murderous look. Truly a petty, pedantic race.

"They documented Morinth's presence in their facility?" Vlair asks.

"It's a her alias on the manifest. Fortunately, Aridi Sin's people aren't that dull, but this security breach…the timing with C-Sec's interference and Neve botching the shoot…"

"I'll take care of it after we have Neve's situation in hand. There are plenty of discreet programs that can erase the data trail." And plenty of discreet programs that can mimic erasure while preserving vital data. Kella touches two fingers to her crinkled brow.

"That would be helpful, Vlair, thank you. I'll focus on placating Lanaral and Potential Barriers and rescheduling Neve's shoot." Kella's eyes lock with his through the active pane. "They don't want another model. They know value when they see it and there's no time for us to scout another prospect. She's everything we need and is wonderfully responsive to the compound. We need her. Keep her out of C-Sec's net."

The interface pane collapses. The pile of stinking blankets next to Vlair snorts. The drell tenses. His right hand goes to the Razer VII holstered beneath his outerskin jacket. The mimeo-shroud module concealing the weapon from any scans resonates against his palm. His fingers close over the cool metal when a Batarian's head shakes off the soiled cloth. Four black, sleep clouded eyes blink up at Vlair. The drell sees when the alien determines he's a likely hostile. While the batarian's lower eyes remain vacant, the higher and smaller pair—the dominant pair—sparkle with cunning intelligence.

Removing his hand from his jacket, Vlair holds it up with his other hand, gesturing his goodwill. He puts one finger to his lips in a wordless request for silence. The batarian's forehead wrinkles. Had he any brows, one would have hooked up. A flap of Vlair's hand a twitch of his fingers conjures a credit chit seemingly from the air itself. He lobs the chit at the batarian. A hand appears from the blanket folds and swipes the chit, then the batarian becomes a grumbling bundle of cloth once more. Vlair heads for the splinter avenue behind the complex. Silence isn't easily bought, but if word of a drell's presence on this block spreads, he'll know what loose ends need cutting.

Sticking to the splinter avenues, Vlair winds his way to the back of Neve's resplex. As he goes, he traces seams in the building's architecture. These prefabricated buildings are all constructed with the same core components. The geometry of their assembly will tell him where likely access points could be.

"Hey. Hey, mister!" The little voice whispering to Vlair makes him turn.

A human child skulks several paces from him in a column of light cast by one of the resplex's security spots. The child motions for Vlair's approach. The drell considers ignoring him, then acquiesces. A child hanging about, making noise, will eventually draw unwanted attention.

A canvas duster drapes the boy's lean shoulders. The hem and sleeves of the garment are hacked off to accommodate his small frame. When Vlair's boots toe the edge of the light, the boy throws open his coat like a tiny flasher. Vlair leaps back, shields his face. On the Lower Wards many children use misdirection techniques to render adult marks off guard. A blind-bat program running on a pocket bud system could be stored in a coat or tucked in a palm. The retina burning strobe the programmed bud emits can blind a target for up to twenty minutes. That's long enough for the most untalented pickpocket to strip a mark.

No blind-bat program fires at Vlair. He lowers his arm. A patchwork of miniature vid panes lines the inside of the boy's coat. He clucks his tongue and raises one brow. A scar above his upper lip twists his mouth in a permanent sneer.

"You in the market, mister? I got plenty of footage from that resplex."

The vids looping in the boy's coat are all overshots of resplex apartments. Humans and several aliens undress until the vids pause and reset. Couples projected on the panes ready for intimacy, but never join. The vids are meant to entice buyers. Vlair isn't in the market for voyeuristic skin vids. He reaches in his jacket for a credit chit anyhow.

"You take all these vids?" He asks.

The boy's eyes flick to Vlair's side. He swallows. "Yeah. Which one you want?"

"None," Vlair says. The chit in his hand galvanizes the boy who licks his lips. "I want—"

There's pressure at Vlair's hip. His jacket flares out as he sweeps around and grabs the figure crouched behind him by the throat. At his back, the boy curses and scurries away. He's irrelevant. Vlair has the thief. When he slams her into the resplex wall she gasps. Her feet dangle more than a foot off the ground. Another child. A mass of unbrushed curls tangles about her head. Nails rake Vlair's arm, teeth cut the sensitive bit of skin between his thumb and index finger. He winces, gives her another good knock against the wall that leaves her groaning.

"Your partner's abandoned you," he says, ready to choke her should she scream. He doesn't think she will. Duct rats like this wouldn't risk C-Sec involvement even if C-Sec could save them. Fastest way to end up a ward of whatever government institution claims them. The girl's words fight through her panting.

"Why should both of us be pinched?"

Sound logic. Vlair nods, but doesn't set her down. The boy's out of sight. That doesn't mean he's gone. Duct rats survive in pairs, small groups. While one is free there's always the possibility that those captured will be rescued.

"Your partner film all these vids?" Vlair asks.

"We both do." She twists in his hold, searches for a weak point that doesn't exist.

"Then you know he access points for this building."

A dark eye rolls upward. The girl's sightline skims the building's contours. "Yeah."

"Is there a vent duct with access to the third floor big enough for me?"

The girl's head goes from side to side. Her lips pucker while she compares his girth to the map of tunnels, ducts, and hidden passages in the ward's architecture she undoubtedly carries in her head.

"I know one that'll hold you," she says.

Planting the girl on her feet, Vlair uncurls his fingers from her throat. With a gentle touch, she worries the tender spots he's made. Medical attention won't be necessary. He knows he was careful.

"You should let the boy have a try at lifting. It's not your strong suit," Vlair says.

"Thanks for the advice," the girl says with a roll of her eyes and without inflection. She jerks her head to the right. "This way." She pads further down the splinter avenue, hugging the resplex wall. Vlair follows his scruffy lead, ever mindful of the light.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: I Swear By The Moon And The Stars And The Sky I'll Be There**

The duct Vlair shimmies through brushes his shoulders and thighs. His Razer VII, tucked in a shoulder holster, clunks against his torso. The ground level passages were not so narrow, but he's left them behind along with his outerskin jacket. The fabric could snag on anything in these tighter channels. His biceps, thighs, and calves cramp. The contorted position in which he crawls taxes his stamina. A growl in his almost inaudible sub-vocals escapes him. He pauses for a beat, then continues.

Light, sounds of conversation, and cooking smells waft from the vents Vlair encounters. He pauses at each and peers into the chambers below him, searching for Neve and her…companion.

"Well, what do you want to know?"

Inching off of the vent he looms over, Vlair hovers his face a millimeter from the slatted opening in the duct floor. Puffs of dust cloud the air around him with each breath he expels. Airborne dirt tickles his nose. He pinches his nostrils closed. Neve is below him. She paces behind the island in her narrow kitchen. The turian leans against the wall near her sofa. He flaps an arm at her cleared desktop.

"Why you're selling off your tech for starters."

With her face angled away, Vlair can't read Neve's expression. Pale, slender fingers trace patterns on her island's counter. She shakes her head, tucks both hands under her arms.

"I needed the money. God," she hides her face in her hands, muffling her voice when she speaks, "I needed that shoot. After your boss turned me loose I went to the damn hotel, but Lanaral wasn't there. I couldn't salvage the shoot, so I came here, bagged up everything I thought would bring in creds, and went to the Lower Markets."

"If you needed money—" the turian peels from the wall. Neve halts his advance with a raised palm.

"Don't you think you've done enough for me?" Emotion makes Neve's voice husky. She sniffs and snatches a rag from her kitchen counter, honks her nose into it.

"Not nearly enough good," the turian says. Fingers knot before his tapered torso.

Vlair's upper lip curls. What does this turian have that he doesn't?

"I would have given you a loan," the avian alien mumbles.

"I'm not big on charity," Neve says, tossing her makeshift handkerchief into the sink. "Besides, it's just stuff, right? I'm used to sacrificing for my mom."

"Your mom?"

The story rolls out of Neve and at the end of it Vlair has more insight into the dancer. The turian has taken a seat on the sofa, chin in his hands, elbows on his knees.

"But this is the last time," Neve says. "If your boss comes through with his end of the bargain, that is."

"I've known Chellik to bend the law for the sake of a greater justice, but he's a turian of his word." The turian rubs the side of a talon over the seam of his mouth. "What are the terms of your deal?"

Fortified behind her island, Neve runs a finger over the documentation spread in front of her. Once she divines the information she needs, she hefts a sheaf of papers into her hands. She searches the pages while she talks.

"I help the senior detective with Dalessia Kella and he helps me with my mom."

The turian leans forward on the couch. "Help him how?"

Vlair inwardly thanks the officer for his persistent questions. If C-Sec is ready to move on Kella, they'll need a counter plan. This time he stifles the growl rumbling in his throat. There are enough complications with the Udina initiative without C-Sec's involvement. Neve takes her time responding and when she does, she dodges the question.

"Is all this for real?" She shuffles the papers she carries, slitting her eyes at the blocks of small print covering them. "You really think Dalessia Kella is the mastermind behind NOVA? That Band Cluster Agencies is a front for," her brows go up as she reads, "potential chameleon operatives?"

Vlair rolls onto his side. His jaw clenches until it aches. They gave her a damn dossier? His hand twitches and fists involuntarily. Punching the duct wall would clear his head, but he knows better. Impulsivity is the first trait the hanar train out of their assassins. Emotions motivate and can overwhelm him. Controlling them hasn't been a problem since he was a child. In the narrow duct he stills himself, lets his thoughts spin out. No scenario he imagines ends without cutting Neve loose. Kella can't use her in the Udina initiative. She knows too much. Re-angling himself quietly back over the vent, Vlair resumes his observation. The turian's on his feet. He crosses to the island. Neve retreats until her back touches the kitchen counter's edge.

"There's no doubt of Kella's position in NOVA, but admissible evidence? Hard data linking her with the organization a tribunal would accept?" The officer lifts a datapad from the documentation and turns the portable screen over in his hands before replacing it. "Doesn't exist. Her people, so far, have been too good and she's far too clever. Most operatives working for NOVA have no idea who their employer is."

Neve holds the papers she brought with her tight to herself, stares at the grimy tile floor. "Chellik thinks I'm a chameleon operative." She bites her bottom lip. "I'm supposed to wear a wire."

Vlair curses in his mind at the same time as the turian blurts his profanity. The C-Sec officer paces, hands clasped behind his back.

"This is why I kept you in the dark. This is what I was trying to prevent."

"And bugging me is better how?" Neve asks. "At least Chellik's up front about it."

"Because you can't betray what you don't know." The turian halts mind-pace and takes a breath. "When I had you under surveillance you were only in danger insomuch as you were involved with Kella. You didn't have to lie to her. Now you do. And if she grows suspicious…Argh." He claws at the sides of his head. "I didn't want you in this situation."

"If she plans on using me to assassinate Udina I don't think I could be in any more danger." Neve's lips twist like she still hasn't accepted the intelligence C-Sec has fed her.

_That's to our benefit_, Vlair thinks.

"We don't know that that's what she has in mind for you. Band Cluster is a functioning talent agency. Kella's interest in you may be as a contributor to her revenue streams," the turian says.

"Why do you think she dosed me then?"

"She dosed you?"

Neve relates what the on site C-Sec lab-work revealed in her bloodstream.

"You were sandblasted," the turian says absently. Mandibles twitch as he thinks. He crooks his arm in front of his chest and his omni-tool glows. Talons peck at the haptic interface. Amber eyes set deep in the turian's face plates move along lines of text emblazoned on his active pane. A wave of his arm extinguishes the haptic gauntlet.

"Zenta Labs hasn't pinged back any results yet. C-Sec raided one of NOVA's strongholds on Omega. The bulk of their funds comes from the production and shipping of illegal substances. We discovered a batch of modified red sand stored with the rest of their goods and sent in a sample for processing. The product you consumed may have been the same. Do you remember what affect it had on you?"

The papers Neve cradles crumple in her grip. "Not a lot. I was barely aware of my surroundings. Like I was dreaming in tunnel vision. There are gaps in my memory too before I blacked out." She cups her temple. "After I woke up I felt like I was getting over the flu. Weakness, headaches, blurry vision, rosy haze over everything."

"The pink tinge to your vision is typical of red sand. The weakness and headaches come from the short term biotic boost users get. Your body isn't used to channeling that much energy," the turian says. "It's possible Kella wanted to test her new product before releasing it to her distributors. Or…"

"Or?" Neve slaps the papers into the island and folds her arms under her breasts.

The turian tap-tap-taps a talon on his armored forearm. "When NOVA selects a chameleon operative for aggressive action, like an assassination, they tend to use civilians they've coerced."

Shaking her head, Neve says, "Nothing they offer me could make me want to kill someone. I'm not that fame hungry."

"NOVA doesn't coerce with credits or favors."

_No_, Vlair thinks, _they don't_. Numbness plagues his thighs and arms. Shifting his weight, he attempts to regain feeling in his rigid limbs.

Chameleon operatives like Neve are subjected to regular doses of red sand or Hallex, any substance that dissolves willpower, weeks or months before their scheduled missions. NOVA's entertainment holdings—the talent agency, clubs, recording labels—feed them all the addictive, desperate, malleable personalities they could ever need. Those who crave fame are easily manipulated, easily controlled and influenced. On a healthy diet of mind altering substances, tapped chameleon operatives are willing to do just about anything. If suicide isn't programmed into an operative and they don't expire from violent withdrawal, they never have any information on NOVA to give up once in custody. The turian officer explains as much.

"So, they brainwash their people," Neve says.

"Yes. That's why it's difficult tying any of these events to NOVA. They're perpetrated by seemingly unstable civilians. The killings are typically attributed to local gang activity or whoever is supplying the drugs at the local level."

"Then they won't be able to use me. I won't smoke or eat or drink anything Dalessia or her people offer me."

The turian cocks his head. "Remember what I told you about Kella growing suspicious? If you change your behavior around her all of sudden, don't you think she'll suspect something's up?"

Neve rakes her fingers through her hair and puts her back to the officer. "Yeah, well, all I have to do is wear the wire once, speak with Kella once and I fulfill Chellik's terms. He gets his conversation and maybe some evidence. I get passage for my mom to the Citadel and all the copies of that _vid_," she whirls around when she says it and the turian shrinks, "get erased."

With effort, the turian straightens. "A lot can go wrong in one meeting."

_And a lot will_, Vlair thinks and focuses on Neve, her dark hair, gray eyes, the slender column of her neck. Now he'll never have the chance to make her his. If one meeting is all the dancer intends, her disposal will come sooner than he'd like.

The turian dares approach her. She allows his proximity, her eyes unwavering from his.

"You need someone on your side," the turian says. "Chellik may value you for the information you give him but he doesn't care."

"And you do?" Neve asks through gritted teeth.

"I do."

The dancer laughs mirthlessly.

"You don't believe me, but I do. When we ate together at Tivictus and O'Callahan's I swore to myself I would protect you." The turian bows his head. "With your permission I'd like to honor my vow."

"Do what you want. You and me," Neve wags a finger between them, "not going to happen."

"Regardless, I keep my promises." The turian sways, staggers, and catches himself on Neve's island. "And even if our relationship is never repaired, I will strive to regain your trust." Both of the turian's hands clutch the island. His head sags.

Some of the steel has left Neve's expression. For an instant, her features soften, then her lips purse and her brows furrow.

"What's wrong with you?" She asks.

"I haven't slept in near two days. I have to go before I pass out."

Shoving off the counter, the turian takes two steps. On the third step his legs buckle and he goes to one knee.

Neve doesn't go to him, but she says, "You won't make it down the stairs without killing yourself." She stares at the ceiling and Vlair flinches. It's an illusion, but she seems to gaze right at him. Every muscle in his body tenses. "You can crash here."

At her words, the turian lifts his head.

"On the floor," Neve adds.

With her attention diverted, Vlair takes the opportunity to exit the duct. He belly crawls back the way he came. That turian may have vowed to keep his little dancer safe, but he can't watch over her twenty-four-seven. And she's in more danger than he knows.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: Where There Is A Flame Someone's Bound To Get Burned**

Sleep doesn't come. I don't think I've had a good night's rest since I met Dalessia Kella. The covers twist around my legs. For the last two hours I've stared wide eyed into the dark. I'm not the least bit tired. I can't stop thinking about what might happen tomorrow. Could Dalessia catch on to me so quickly? I hadn't considered it before Dakan mentioned the possibility. Thanks to his warning I'll be more cautious, but that could backfire too. If I act like a big paranoid freak tip-toeing around every conversation, Dalessia will squash me like a pyjack under a krogan's boot.

The mattress complains when I sit up. Dazed mumbling from Dakan interrupts his light snoring. Fumbling in the gloom, I locate the switch for the fluorescents set in the wall above my bed. Under my fingers the switch clicks back. The light goes ping-ping-ping and flickers on, the blue-white tube emitting a faint buzzing. The fluorescent doesn't illuminate the whole room. I can see clearly down to my knees, then the shadows make everything murky.

I can just discern Dakan at my bedside. Bundled in my spare blanket, he huddles against the bed, using the mattress as a pillow. He's closer than I'd like. If I stretch out my hand I could touch his face. I do. I reach out and hold my fingertips right above his browplates, halting when he mutters in his sleep. Beyond uttering his dream gibberish, he does not stir, but I don't touch him. I air trace the amber colony markings tattooed on his face. Gentle gusts of breath glance my palm when I pass my hand over his nose. My fingers linger over the grooves scoring his mouth. How different this face appears to me after only a few days.

When I was out of my gourd, hopped up on adrenaline, and in the midst of a waning panic attack in the middle of a splinter alley off of Shalta-B, the nurse who treated me had me search out Dakan's face in the crowd of C-Sec officers and civilian rubber-neckers. What did I feel when I saw him? Calm. Safe. His impassive features seemed stoic. Dependable. Plus, he'd just saved my ass from a bunch of thug rapists. My impression of him was colored by his faux valor. Not even his daring rescue was out of the kindness of his heart. The hand I hover over him clenches. My jaw does too.

I still have a soft spot for this turian. This tenderness was built on a metric fuckton of lies. Lies I believed. Lies he says he told for my own good. To protect me. Even if that's true, his feelings can't erase his actions. But none of it, not the lies, the surveillance, the sex vid, is what really gets me. Dakan, despite my infatuation and whatever this kernel of deeper emotion may be, is irrelevant. What matters is me.

I fell for his BS when I fell for him.

He duped me and I trusted him.

Shouldn't I be smarter than that?

The little place near my heart that twinges when I think about our time before I knew tells me, "no." I rub my breastbone and flop back onto the mattress, eliciting a fresh round of muttering from the turian squatting in my apartment. I drape my arm over my eyes.

_When we ate together at Tivictus and O'Callahan's I swore to myself I would protect you. With your permission I'd like to fulfill my vow._

I can't believe a word Dakan says, but he's right about one thing: I need someone in my corner during the coming subterfuge. Winning my trust and reclaiming our relationship, if you can call what we had a relationship, could be Dakan's ultimate priority. It's a nice thought, a hopeful thought, but I don't know that he cares. I do know that a turian's honor is a ginormous part of their identity. If be believes earning my trust will restore his, then that's what he'll do. That's something I can count on. I can trust Dakan's self-interest even if I can't trust him.

Shifting onto my side, I put my back to the turian. I hug my knees and tuck my chin to my chest. I have one misguided turian on my side, but, as always, I'm effectively on my own.

* * *

Why I thought my mom would send a response to my credit care package, I don't know. I loiter at the public access terminal for fifteen minutes. No matter how hard I stare at my inbox, I can't poof a message from Lena Cezetti into existence.

Typical.

With her troubles taken care of, my mom makes herself scarce. It was the same when my grandmother filled this role. I never understood why grandma bailed her out over and over again without so much as a thank you for her hustle and sacrifice. I get it now.

Each time my mom reaches out for help there's a glimmer of hope that this time will be the last time. This time she'll kick her habits and her scumbag friends. This time when I see her face her eyes won't be glassy, her cheeks won't be hollow, and her hair won't be so thin that patches of white scalp peek through. This time she'll message me for a chat. She won't need my credits. This time she'll say "I love you, Neve." She'll be my mom again and not a junkie.

I should let go of that hope.

Then it wouldn't hurt so much when my mom ditches me.

_Whatever. Soon she'll be on the Citadel and back in rehab and out of mind_, I think as I enter the Presidium.

The route to Band Cluster Agencies is programmed into my memory banks. I don't have to stop and consult Avina once. When I arrive at the suite door I come to an abrupt halt. The back of my right ear itches. My right hand shoots up. I smack it down with my left. I'm not supposed to scratch. The salarian C-Sec tech who installed my recepstrip and chat-bud said if I scratch before the three hour set time I'll damage the fragile cybernetics laced beneath the delicate skin behind my ear.

An hour has elapsed since I left the Junction hub. The recepstrip hasn't finished bonding to my nerves. Chellik told me the implantation wouldn't hurt. I was skeptical, but the senior detective was right. A smear of topical anesthetic, a shallow incision, and a daub of medi-gel completed the procedure. At this moment, Chellik and his team are in a transmission clean room eavesdropping on my every peep and the peeps of anyone in a four foot radius around me.

I'm pressing Band Cluster's call button when I remember I'm supposed to check in before interacting with Dalessia or any of her people. I snatch my finger from the button and step back, bring my shoulders up to my ears.

"I'm about to enter the agency," I whisper.

While there were no messages from my mom in my inbox, there was one from Dalessia. I read that message so many times I don't think I could forget it if I tried. Not that it was super long.

_Neve,_

_If you value your future with this agency, report to our Presidium location no later than eleven AM tomorrow._

_Dalessia Kella – Agent_

_Band Cluster Agencies_

The message tells me two things. One, Dalessia didn't lose Potential Barriers as a client and, two, either Kobin, the elcor designer, or Lanaral want me specifically for the shoot. If they didn't Dalessia would have cut me loose and replaced me with a scab model. Whatever it takes to keep a high profile client on her roster. Of course, if I'm the chameleon operative she's selected to assassinate—I gulp—Earth's ambassador she'd want me under the agency's wing no matter what. I channel the power of positive thinking. It's the only thing keeping my legs from giving out. I'm a revenue stream, a guinea pig Dalessia chose to test out her new designer drug.

The hiss of white noise fills my right ear. When Chellik speaks, the chat-bud fixed to the curve of my inner ear jitters and its takes all my self control not to dig out the irritating device.

"Very good, Ms. Cezetti. We'll maintain transmission silence until your word. Technician Caruso, begin recor—"

Sounds of a struggle disrupt the senior detective's command. A not entirely unwelcome voice comes over the feed.

"We're here for you, Neve. Don't worry. We have your position. If we hear anything questionable, we'll come for you."

A snarl from Chellik silences Dakan. The feed goes dead and let out the breath I hold. All through the implantation Dakan was with me, hovering at the periphery of the Junction hub's medical facility. He was there during the senior detective's briefing, a quiet and comforting presence I didn't realize I depended on quite so much. An unpleasant lightness makes my stomach floaty. I approach the suite door on unsteady feet and touch my finger to the call button.

Before the interior tone chimes the door slides open. Vlair towers in the entryway. I start to speak when his hand clamps around my upper arm. He drags me down tier six's corridor.

"Hey. Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?" I plant my feet on the corridor floor. My soles squeak over the tile as Vlair continues dragging me.

"Stop struggling," the drell says in that deep, rasping voice of his. "We're cutting it close as it is." With one hard jerk on my arm, he yanks me off my feet and I go stumbling into him. Arms circle around my shoulders. Vlair steadies me with his body. I shove out of his embrace.

"What exactly are we 'cutting close?'" I ask.

Vlair comes toward me and I dart back. Sighing, he offers me his hand.

"Our arrival at the make up shoot. We're twenty minutes from overdue." He inclines his head in my direction. "Or were you planning on playing hooky a second time?"

I give him my best bitch face and place my hand in his. Together, we sprint to the nearest transit terminal. The skycar we hail whisks us to the Calliope Hotel.

* * *

Lanaral's team has transformed the main ballroom once more. The planetoid landscape set consuming the stage is of much higher quality than the test shoot environment dressings. In addition to the practical set, simulation drones float above the stage. They project beams of light from their cyclopic lenses that paint a dynamic, star filled background behind the physical props, giving the set an extra layer of depth. The grumbling of a krogan pack rolls over the din of construction and chatter like distant thunder. I don't see the big lizards and a pair of asari extract me from Vlair's escort and hurry me to an upstairs suite, so I can't investigate.

A throng of cosmetic tailors and stylists populate my "room." I'm stripped, robed, and plunked down in a frightening chair right out of a torture porn vid with all sorts of armatures and kinetic straps. My right arm is tethered to the wide armrest and hinged out to the side. A navy-skinned asari with near invisible violent pigment patterns rolls to me on a be-wheeled stool and works on my nails while a second asari with lavender coloring secures my chin and forehead with a pair of kinetic bands. The energy restraints keep me in place while leaving my skin unmarked. They're nowhere near as uncomfortable as the C-Sec cuffs.

"Is this really necessary?" I ask the lavender asari who's coming right at my eye with a needle-like wand with a lighted tip.

"We don't know if you're a wriggler," the asari explains. "Cosmetic work is precise. Figiting makes our job harder." She brings the needle-wand to my forehead. "And you really don't want a slip up while I'm sculpting your brows, do you?"

If I wasn't strapped down, I'd shake me head.

"I didn't think so," the asari says and starts weed-whacking my eyebrows with her death wand. The lighted end of the tool is superheated. The asari doesn't touch it to my skin, just swipes it above my stray hairs and they singe right off. I see why she tied me down. One wrong move and I get a lovely third degree burn in the middle of my face.

Once the cleaning up and prettifying is complete, they truss me in an actual kinetic armor harness prototype from Potential Barries. It figure eights around my boobs and criss-crosses down my back and snaps together at my crotch. I inspect myself in the full length mirror, pull a face.

The entourage of cosmeticians and stylists parade me onstage in front of Lanaral and Kobin. Dalessia's there too, studying me with a critical eye, her tongue in her cheek and her finger to the corner of her mouth. Vlair stands behind her. He drums his fingers on the back of her chair. Lanaral eyes me up and down and puts his hand to his head.

"No, no. Get her out of that," he says.

"But sir," the head cosmetic tailor interrupts, "once we turn it on." She smacks the action gem between my breasts. Vibrant panes of kinetic shielding tile my body. I flick one of the shield panes. The energy armor tazes me. Hissing, I shake the pain out of my hand and suck on my scorched finger.

"No. I don't care how it looks activated. I can see that awful harness," Lanaral says. "We can comp the product into the final stills. She's already sex-posing with a bunch of krogan. That S&M get up lacks subtlety. The last thing I want this campaign to be is tacky. I did tacky three seasons ago. Too soon to do it again. I want her nude. Like the test footage I showed you."

"Understood, sir." The asari shucks me out of the deactivated harness.

Free of the constricting gear, I roll and massage my shoulders, stretch my neck from side to side. I'm more comfortable naked anyhow.

Krogan tramp onto the stage as my retinue of cosmetic tailors descend from it. The shoot begins. Working with the krogan is easy. These are the same males from the test shoot and I've earned some krant cred with them. By the end of the shoot, we're chuckling at some foul joke the krant leader pops off and I've been good naturedly punched in the arm and thumped on the back so much I'm surprised I'm not purple and yellow-green already.

When I'm done mingling with Lanaral and Kobin—and avoiding Dalessia and Vlair—I end up sweaty and exhausted, lounging in the cosmetic torture chair in the upstairs suite. The job's done, but my mission is unfinished. Spineless isn't usually my style. Then again, I'm not usually caught between a council backed security force and a powerful shadow organization. I can't hide in here forever and Dalessia doesn't intend to let me. The asari enters the vacated suite. Vlair follows, shutting the door behind them.

"Neve," Dalessia says, her voice icy, "so glad you could join us." She gives me a grand bow like I'm royalty.

The room becomes uncomfortably hot though a flimsy robe is all I wear. I can't meet the asari's eye. I scratch my cheek and tap my feet together. The back of my ear throbs. So does the chat-bud. My implanted ear feels swollen, comically large on my head. I want to cover it, but I know the sensation is psychosomatic.

"You're very lucky the client was enamored with you," Dalessia says and signals Vlair.

Hunching my shoulders, I say, "Yeah," under my breath. I didn't notice when he entered the room, but Vlair carries a small handled case with him. Pacing to the sideboard butted against the west wall, the drell places the case on the lacquered counter and opens it. His back obscures whatever's inside.

"Care to explain your prior absence?"

Dalessia's question yanks my attention back to her. I knew when I saw her I was getting a talking to. I hate this shit. What explanation would satisfy her? The truth?

_Sorry Dalessia. I was on my way to the shoot yesterday when I got collared and interrogated by C-Sec. I dodged a permanent arrest record by bartering my services as an informant. Care to tell me about your work with NOVA?_

I'm sure that would go over well. Instead, I shrug.

"Excuses don't change the past. Do you really want me to waste your time with them now?"

A half-smile stretches Dalessia's mouth. "I suppose not. You've completed the shoot, the client's pleased, and you've fulfilled the terms of your temp contract. To be blunt, your fiscal value outweighs your professional difficulties."

Vlair joins the asari. He hands her a set of headphones she wears. When she tilts back her head, he attaches two small, silver nodes to both sides of her neck. Another set of headphones hangs from his left arm. His right hand is closed around something.

"There's an event tonight you will attend," Dalessia informs me. "Call it making amends for all the groveling and ass kissing I did yesterday on your behalf."

"Right," I say, cheeks flaming. "What event?"

The nod Dalessia gives Vlair is so slight I almost miss it. I'm sure I was supposed to.

In a burst of silent speed, the drell appears at my side. An arm hooks around my neck, choking off my startled gasp. Headphones settle over my ears. Vlair's arm leaves my neck as Dalessia rummages in the drell's case. His hand covers my mouth. There's pressure at my windpipe. Two spots of cold chill the sides of my neck. The cold spots vibrate, tickling and numbing my throat. As Dalessia crawls atop me, Vlair uncovers my mouth. One of his hands captures my chin, the other bands about my forehead. I'm getting ready to bite and kick when Dalessia thrusts the brow sculpting wand in my face. Its lighted tip makes me blink. Searing heat radiates against my cheek. My eyes tear. The asari's voice comes through my headset.

"You're wearing a wire, Neve. Tell me where it is and you may walk out of here without a career ending scar."


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: Tell Me Lies, Tell Me Sweet Little Lies**

"The wire. Tell me where it is."

The brow wand waves back and forth in front of my face. My eyes follow its lighted tip. Sweat beads in the crease between my neck and head, my upper lip, and my forehead and neck where Vlair holds me. My heart thuds against my ribs. Dalessia's weight bears down on my hips. I don't dare move, not with that wand pointed at me.

Through my teeth, I say, "I'm not wearing a wire." My chest goes up and down. My lungs burn like I've run a mile. The wand inches closer, centers on my eye. Vlair releases my chin. Two rough fingers pry my lids open though I struggle to blink.

"Don't. Lie. To. Me." Each word Dalessia growls brings the wand nearer. Tears brim over my hostage eye. They evaporate, hissing and steaming the moment they spill onto my cheek. Heat from the brow tool's pointed end sears my flesh. The skin tightens, itches, stings. As my eye dries out my arms twitch. I know I shouldn't move, but I can't stop my reflexes and my reflexes say, "Get that wand out of my fucking face."

The asari straddling me captures my chin in the vee of her left hand. Manicured fingertips dig into my cheeks.

"Keep still," Dalessia says. "If you don't tell me where the wire is, you will lose this eye."

I whimper. I can't help it. I'm lucky I haven't pissed myself yet.

"Tell me!" Dalessia jabs the wand at my eye and I scream, try burrowing into the back of the cosmetic chair before I realize she's faked me out. The wand hasn't moved. Dalessia feinted. I'm shaking so much the asari jiggles atop me. I swallow and swallow again. Someone must hear me. One of the cosmetic tailors or Chellik and his people. Help has to be on the way. When I scream again for good measure, the asari laughs.

"Nice try." She draws away the wand. "No one's going to hear you." She touches one of the nodes at my throat. "Not with these."

I must look confused because Dalessia continues.

"Did you know that drell have a unique hyoid bone?"

I glace upward and go, "uhhm." I have no idea what a hyoid bone is, but not answering might get me a super heated shank in the eye. Dalessia sneers.

"Just once I'd like to meet a human that has clue one about a species other than their own."

"Good luck with that," Vlair mutters.

I jerk my head at the insult. My bucking doesn't upset Vlair's hold on me and Dalessia re-positions her wand near my face, putting an end to my bravery. Her grip on my chin tightens. I grunt at the vise-like pressure about my jaw.

"The hyoid bone regulates the range of sounds you vocalize. A drell's uniquely structured hyoid allows them to produce tones well out of the auditory range of most species. This little device," Dalessia cranes her neck, indicating the sliver nodes attached to it, "allows us to speak within a drell's upper ranges."

A strangled, desperate sound comes from my mouth. No one can hear me. Chellik and his team have no idea that I'm in danger. Help's not coming. I close the one eye I can. If I admit I wear a wire, that's it. Game over. Dalessia could let me walk out of here, but Chellik won't get his recorded conversation which means I get a permanent solicitation arrest on my record, he keeps his copy of Dakan's skin vid for possible future blackmail, and my mom gets stuck in her drug hole on Earth. I have to stall for time, convince her she's wrong about the wire. How does she know about the surveillance at all? Did she bug me too? When I speak, I try modulating my voice, but it comes out shaky.

"Dalessia, I swear to you—"

The asari shakes her head. "Why does everyone want everything the hard way?"

Part of me didn't believe Dalessia would actually do it. Talent agents don't jeopardize their talent. How up a creek I am sinks in when the asari plunges the sculpting wand into my cheek.

Shock overtakes me. I don't scream right away. First, there's a noise like the spit of boiling oil in a frying pan. The smell of cooking meat invades my nostrils. I gag. It's me cooking, my skin crackling like pork fat. Flesh stretches over my cheek bone, puckering around the wand's white hot tip. Shock wears off. Pain blinds me, leaves me breathless. Until I scream. I scream so long and loud my voice gives out. Dalessia's had the wand to my face for maybe a few seconds. When your nerve endings are ablaze, seconds become hours.

Dalessia yanks away the wand. A bit of my skin goes with it. I can't tell how extensive the damage is. Half of my face throbs, burns. Horrific images flood my mind: charred flesh, blackened, cracked and oozing yellow-white pus. Exposed, thread-like nerves, red and glistening. Roasted meat dropping from scorched bone. I can't breathe. My heart's going too fast, my pulse too loud in my ears. My mouth opens and closes, not taking in any air.

Dalessia's hand comes away from my chin and comes down on the other side of my face. The slap jolts me out of Vlair's grip. His hands find my shoulders and pin my upper half to the cosmetic chair. I choke out agonized sobs. The asari astride my lap stares down at me, her expression disgusted.

"Honestly," she says, "can't humans take the least bit of pain?" She aligns the wand with the opposite cheek and I yelp, angle my body away, anything to protect myself. "We have these suites through the night, Neve. How much you endure is up to you. The wire. Tell me wh—"

"Ms. Kella?"

Lanaral's voice comes through the door. He knocks. I start to cry out when I remember no one but another drell can hear me. Dalessia makes an exasperated sound and slides off me. She casts the doused brow wand onto the sideboard she passes on her way to the door.

Over her shoulder, she says to Vlair, "Make sure she doesn't go anywhere. Talk sense into her if you can."

I'm released and the drell stands before the cosmetic chair, blocking me from Lanaral's view.

"Ah, Ms. Kella," the salarian photographer says. "A few items we must finalize." Then the door snicks shut.

I quake in the cosmetic chair. Gripping its cushioned armrests, I will myself out of the panic that threatens to suck me under. As my adrenaline rush wears off, I must accept more pain than I know how to cope with. Where the wand punctured feels like an open wound flushed with rubbing alcohol. I have to stop the burning. Lifting my hand, I go to put pressure where it hurts and Vlair's arm shoots out. Fingers bracelet my wrist and the drell casts down my arm.

"Leave it alone," he says.

I shift away from him and try tending my cheek again. This time Vlair lunges forward. Snaring my shoulders, he slams me back into the chair. Hands skim over my arms. He captures my wrists and secures my willful appendages to my sides.

"Leave it," he whispers, face close enough to mine that I detect the spicy scent of licorice on his breath.

I haven't recovered enough to fight. My throat's too raw for screaming. The reptilian warden pinioning me won't let me nurse my wound. I have no outlet and there's so much rage and frustration built inside me. A watery film coats my eyes, makes the room waver. I snuffle before my nose runs.

_Not this way, Neve. Hold it in. This is too pathetic._

I knock my head against the back of the chair. Though I bite down on my bottom lip I can't stop a soft whine from escaping me. I flutter my eyelids, gaze at the soft, white overheads, hoping the stimulation stems the tears about to fall. Neither the light nor my blinking helps. I weep. A soft something touches the outside corner of my eye on the painful side of my face. Vlair holds a handkerchief to my eye, sponging my tears before they roll down my cheek. I didn't even feel him release my wrist.

"You shouldn't cry," the drell says. "Salt water and fresh burns are not a clever combination."

"You think I fucking want to?"

Under Vlair's care my tears soon dry. I'm indignant at his babying and that indignation helps me master my outburst. When the drell's certain I've finished sniveling, he removes the handkerchief and tucks it into his outerskin jacket.

"You really are dramatic," he says and fixes my freed arm in place once more. "Dalessia didn't do much damage."

"Are you kidding? My face feels like beef jerky."

Laughter parts Vlair's full lips. "Dalessia is adept at inflicting the maximum amount of pain with a minimum of tissue damage. Here, I'll show you."

When Vlair reaches for the hand mirror on a standing tray next to the cosmetic chair, he has to let me go. Arched over my body, he steadies himself on the headrest as he stretches for the mirror. He's left himself completely open. Either he doesn't think I have the strength to take him—which is debatable—or he doesn't think I'll dare. I narrow my eyes at all his vulnerable points on display. Throat, chest, stomach, and groin.

I curl up in my seat like a pre-strike rattler. Vlair grasps the mirror's handle and I slam my heel right into his crotch. The drell hollers and crumples. Right on top of me. Vlair's weight crushes me and drives the air from my lungs. He snarls out his pain. His arms flail as he claws for leverage. Mustering all my strength, I heave the drell off me and he crashes into the standing tray, scattering the implements on its surface and flopping onto his back. The tray topples onto his chest. I have a clear shot at the exit.

Flinging myself out of the chair, I stagger towards the suite door. I can't manage a sprint. All my strength got used up laying out Vlair. Fortunately, my legs don't buckle when I stand. The door's interior panel is an arm's length away when the drell I thought I incapacitated barrels into me from behind. We fly forward. The drell's arms link around my middle. My forehead bashes into the sealed door. I shout, which no one but Vlair can hear since the hyoid nodes are still attached to my throat, slump against the wall, and sink to my knees. Vlair goes with me. Both of us end up face down on the floor. Well, I'm on the floor. Vlair is face down on top of me. His chest heaves against my back. Warm breath steams my nape. My burned cheek is mushed against the carpet. I groan and squirm, wriggle onto my back. I blow my hair out of my face.

"Let me go." I flop underneath Vlair, try to dislodge him. He thumps his body against mine and I go limp. He pushes up on his forearms.

"I'll release you once you tell me where the wire is. It'll be infinitely less painful for you if you tell me. Dalessia won't let you walk. You're too important to the agency. To NOVA."

I purse my lips. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Vlair blinks his inner lids, momentarily covering his black eyes in a milky film. "Playing possum won't help you."

"I'm shocked you know what a possum is."

"Some of us are aware of other species' ecosystems besides our own."

I make a sour face at him. "I know you all live on the hanar homeworld since you butt fucked your own planet."

The smile Vlair offers me isn't a friendly one. I mirror the expression and throw a shoulder into his chest. He grunts and sways and while he regains his balance, I start slithering out from under him. I get in one hip wiggle before my arms end up over my head. Vlair brings his nose to mine.

"Where did C-Sec plant the wire?"

This is the closest I've ever been to Vlair. All this time I've been wrong about his eyes. They're not pure black. From here, I see the faint outline of his irises. I lick my lips and cant up my chin, demonstrating my defiance.

"I see," Vlair says and maneuvers my wrists into one of his hands. His unoccupied palm skates to the vee shaped opening in my robe. His fingers tap a bare swatch of my chest. "There are a few places where sub-dermal wires are generally planted."

Vlair's hand vanishes into my robe. A fingertip trails along the undercurve of my breast. I bare my teeth at him and ignore the wicked shivers making my belly tremble.

"There's one area eliminated," Vlair says and his hand skates lower, passes my navel, heads to the junction between my thighs. "Sometimes they put it inside—"

"It's behind my ear, asshole."

Vlair taps the tip of my nose. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

I have a pithy reply locked and loaded, but I'm flipped onto my stomach before I can fire it. A knee to my back anchors me in place. My hair gets swiped over my head. I hear rustling and metal sliding over metal. Vlair tugs on one of my ears, then the other, the one with the wire behind it.

"Hey, what are you—ow. Ow!"

A sharp, cold something scores the back of my ear, leaving a stinging trail along the wire's implantation line. The cybernetic device pulls away from my skin like an overlong hangnail. I groan. During the impromptu surgery, the suite door slides open. The shiny points of two sharp toed stilettos come into view.

"Does she still resist your charms, Vlair?" Dalessia asks. The door shuts as she paces to my left.

"I've removed the wire," Vlair says. His knee lifts from my back. I'm hauled to my feet. The drell's arms are hooked under mine. He holds me against his chest. A warm trickle courses from my ear down the back of my neck.

"Excellent." Dalessia folds her arms under her breasts. A glass object she holds glitters under the overheads. I squint. It's a syringe. A capped syringe.

"There should be a chat-bud in her right ear," Vlair says.

Stepping to my side, Dalessia reaches out and plucks the bud from my ear. Compared to the burn on my cheek and the removal of the wire, this doesn't hurt so much. Biotic energy shimmers over Dalessia's fingertips. She crushes the bud between them. The energy dissipates and she uncaps the syringe, holds it in front of her face, and judges its liquid contents.

"We go forward with the Udina initiative tonight." She flicks the syringe and extends her hand. "One of her arms, please."

"She's not ready for that," Vlair responds. He offers one of my arms anyhow. "She hasn't been through a full regiment of the necessary drugs."

Rolling up my robe's sleeve, Dalessia squeezes my upper arm, plumping the flesh. "That's why I've increased her dose."

I open my mouth, but Vlair speaks over my protests.

"That could kill her."

"A risk I'm willing to take."

The needle pierces my arm and Dalessia depresses the plunger. Potent drugs flood my system. Firey liquid spreads through my veins. My heart jumps, races. So do my thoughts. I don't get the woozy disorientation I experienced when I smoked with the asari. This time my vision immediately tunnels. The world shrinks, grows further and further away, then blinks out entirely.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: There's A Bad Moon On The Rise**

When Neve collapses, Vlair catches her. Easing to his knees, he arranges the dancer in his arms, cradles her head, makes sure her legs aren't at odd angles. Twisting her head this way and that, he surveys what damage Kella has inflicted.

A red, vaguely hand shaped mark colors her right cheek. On her left is the burn from the cosmetic wand. He didn't lie to Neve about the severity of the burn. It looks like someone stubbed out a slender cigarette on her face. With his thumb he sweeps away a tear of sticky lymph that seeps from the cauterized puncture. The dancer's eyes are still open, but she doesn't respond to his touch or blink when he waves his hand before her face.

Kella has assumed Neve's place in the cosmetic chair. The standing tray Vlair knocked over when Neve kneed his balls is upright again. The case he brought to the suite containing the hyoid devices and injection equipment rests on its brushed steel surface. As Kella rolls up her suit sleeve, a swell of nausea has him squeezing both sets of lids shut. He swallows back the sickness and grits his teeth at the dull pain in his balls and lower back. A fading headache pounds at his temples.

_That's what I get for the small kindness I offered_, Vlair thinks and silently castigates himself again for allowing Neve to get her shot in.

Calming the dancer had been his priority. Kella intended to subject Neve to another round of the AY-altered red sand. Panic in one of the dose subjects would render the mutual bond necessary for total control impossible. With Neve so frantic about her face, Kella would have wasted good drugs on a useless session. Showing Neve how minor her trauma was, banishing that uncertainty, would have made her a more productive subject. And he doesn't like seeing fear in a woman unless he's the cause.

Discomfort passes and he opens his eyes.

A small bottle Kella removes from the case goes next to the fresh syringe she's prepped for her personal injection. This session is supposed to be another test of Neve's susceptibility, more puppeting practice for a staged encounter with the ambassador tonight. Going forward with the Udina initiative jumps the time table by almost a month. It's a mistake.

"If you plan to have an encounter with Udina this evening perhaps scarring your operative's face wasn't for the best," Vlair says. He touches his fingertips to the pulse at Neve's throat, counts. It's high.

"Oh," Kella waves her hand at him. "A little medi-gel and a spray of concealer and she'll be fine. That love tap I gave her won't even need regenerative treatments from Pure. Not that she'll need regenerative treatments after tonight."

Sweat soaks Neve's bangs. They're stuck to her forehead. Vlair swipes them off her damp face. She sucks gulps of air through her parted lips, making hissing noises with each sharp intake.

Rechecking her vitals, Vlair says, "Something's wrong with her."

Pink liquid fills the syringe's black notched barrel as Kella sucks the drug from its bottle. After she chucks the emptied bottle onto the standing tray, the asari reclines on the cosmetic chair and flicks the readied needle.

"The liquid form of the drug's more potent. Its effects are stronger, last longer, and manifest quicker. Her body and nervous system are floundering. Once I establish our connection she'll be fine."

Kella jabs herself with the syringe and smashes the flat top of its plunger with her thumb. She grimaces at the needle's bite. The twisted expression fades when euphoria sets in. Glossy lips open and her dark eyes roll white. Dropping the syringe, she grips the cosmetic chair's armrests as she trembles and twitches. With a deep breath, she relaxes into the chair and sighs out a soft moan. A minute of Kella's slouched, drug induced stupor elapses, then she hinges upright. Her eyes open. Their irises and the surrounding whites are eclipsed by darkness, a symptom of the asari's telepathic fugue. Staring up and ahead—seemingly at nothing—Kella's lips move in silent speech.

In Vlair's arms, Neve quiets. Her breathing slows as does her pulse, somewhat. When her eyes close she becomes dead weight in his hands and her head dangles back. Fitting an arm behind her back, Vlair supports her weight, cups her skull with his hand.

"Her pulse is still high," he says.

"Then monitor her stability." Kella rises and falters. A hand to the cosmetic chair prevents her from plunking back into it. The other hand she places on her forehead. "Our connection allows me to regulate her systems, but I need to conserve my strength for tonight. Contact Enel."

"Enel?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Kella snaps. Her forehead wrinkles when she frowns. She runs a hand over her scalp crest.

The intensity of the drugs and metal communion aren't the only stressors wearing at Kella's usual calm. Since his debrief last night, the asari has grown increasingly unstable. Intel about Neve's wire tap had half-left his mouth when she'd raged, berating him and her incompetent network. Hearing the extent of C-Sec's involvement on top of their recent raid and Aridi Sin's shipping manifest blunder had her nerves raw, worn to the quick. After he'd related all he knew, she'd sent him scurrying on a dozen useless errands. Fact checking. Triple covering their asses. Not that any of the last minute maintenance he performed will save Kella in the end. Vlair intends to make certain of that.

"What should I convey to Enel?" Vlair can't think about the asari spokesmodel without smiling. Time is always pleasantly spent with her.

"She'll be Neve's escort," Kella says. "Inform her of the event's time and be sure she dresses for the occasion."

Vlair's smile vanishes. "You wouldn't prefer I escort Neve?" He kneads the dancer's arms. He needs more time with her and her impression of him could be…positively cultivated while she's under the influence.

"I wouldn't," Kella says, now at ease with the drugs in her system and the second dormant consciousness mingling with hers. "Unless you'd care for the honor and a slice of the heat when she kills Udina."

All Vlair can do is stare at the asari for half a minute. The he splutters, "That's too soon."

Far too soon. No. She can't be serious. The first encounters with a target are always casual, flirtatious. These intrigues play out slow. A chameleon operative earns the target's confidence in inches and strikes after total trust is gained. Executing the assassination tonight…it's preposterous. There's no plan in place. And Vlair's exit strategy isn't solid.

While toiling for Kella the previous evening, Vlair stopped in the lower markets. One of his regular suppliers for black market programs had two orders ready for him. His first purchase was a modified sluice program which eliminated the digital paper trail linking Kella to Aridi Sin, the drug shipment, and the AY-Eternity research. That program also stored a copy of those records for Vlair to use against Kella later. Passing C-Sec evidence to prosecute Kella will keep them off his ass. He'd executed the sluice program last night. The drive containing the shipping manifest and a number of additional sensitive records is secreted in the inner breast pocket of his outerskin jacket.

The second purchase was an order he'd placed months ago: a new identity kit.

A drell in his position doesn't break the Compact easily. The hanar aren't in the habit of letting their top assassins quit. Vlair knows too much of the Illuminated Primacy's shadowy politics, too much of their ongoing schemes. The one sure way out of his host race's clinging tentacles is death. After he feeds Kella to the varren, a new identity will shield him from any retaliation from NOVA should the organization survive the loss of its leader. Staging one's death is a complex matter if it's to be believable. The identity kit came with all the programs and documents necessary to beginning his new life on the Citadel, but how Vlair Upshad should die…he thought he had time enough to parse that dilemma.

"Dalessia—"

The asari rounds on him. "No. No more arguments. No more questions."

Vlair bows his head. "I beg a moment of your patience."

The fine carpet dampens the tap-tap-tap of the asari's stiletto. She can't resist him when he plays up the humility angle.

"Make it quick."

"What makes Udina so important that you're willing to risk your position and NOVA in a reckless assassination attempt?"

Kella's expression blanks as she considers his question. She's deciding what to tell him if anything.

Straightening the sleeves and lower hem of her suit jacket, she says, "Humanity is the foremost concern of many organizations including NOVA. We would be doing a number of powerful agencies a large favor by eliminating Earth's ambassador. A great deal of power and influence rides on his life. I won't lose that to C-Sec's meddling."

"I don't think—"

"Aria passed me some rather interesting information before our relocation to the Citadel. It seems Cerberus has made contact with Earth's ambassador."

"The human terrorist group? The ones the Terra Firma party lionize?"

"Cerberus is more than a terrorist group. Much more. They wield a massive amount of power in the interests of humanity." Kella approaches Vlair as she goes on. "The humans have the Council's favor. They have their own spectre. If Shepard defeats Saren I've no doubt ambassador Udina will leverage that political triumph for a seat on the Council he serves."

Vlair stifles his laughter. "They would never grant that honor to such a green species."

"Do not underestimate humanity, Vlair. They are persuasive and unrepentant political and military bullies without the turians' discipline. They've been given too much too soon and Cerberus is courting an alliance with a man who has the sympathetic ear of the Council." Dalessia's face grows stony. "You weren't around for the krogan rebellions. I was. I won't allow an unstable, aggressive species a chance at galactic dominance again. Now," Kella takes a breath and visibly relaxes, "are we clear on my _reckless_ behavior?"

Vlair dips his chin in acknowledgement.

"Good."

Instructions for the remainder of the afternoon and the evening's event are dictated to Vlair. A tux for him and a gown for Neve hang in the closet. One of the cosmetic tailors will arrive in two hours to do Neve's hair and makeup. There's time for a generous amount of medi-gel to repair the dancer's face. The tailor's been paid well not to ask questions about the dancer's state. Enel should arrive at the suite at seven PM and Vlair isn't to leave until Neve and the spokesmodel are in their skycar and in transit.

"If Enel's on anything when you contact her make sure she's off it by seven. I'll have complete command of Neve before she sets foot out of the car." With her hand on the suite door's interior panel, Kella says, "Come to me immediately after you get Enel and Neve into the skycar and they take off. I need you at my side tonight."

"As you wish," Vlair says, but Kella's already gone.

Hefting Neve into his arms, Vlair clambers to his feet and drapes the dancer over the cosmetic chair. He removes the hyoid nodes from her throat. The headset she wore came off in their struggle by the door. Once the hyoid equipment is safely in its case, he extracts a packet of medi-gel. Tearing the packet open with his teeth, he spits out the bit of plastic, squeezes the warm gelatin onto his fingers, and starts applying it to Neve's burned cheek.

* * *

"We should send a retrieval team to the suite." Dakan hadn't stopped squirming since the first interference with Neve's audio feed. Surveillance was never reestablished. Chellik had just declared the wire dead.

"I don't remember asking your opinion, detective," Chellik muttered, then rose to address his assembled squad.

Seven of them sat on benches arranged around a low table where Sam worked with and monitored all the surveillance equipment. The clean rooms used for all A/V-S sessions were fortified against ambient transmissions. Millions of active media and comm feeds open at any time on the Citadel created minor interference for even professional grade hardware. Clean rooms eliminated garbage frequencies that could potentially disrupt a targeted feed. The fortified chambers weren't foolproof, but cases like Neve's were rare and that had Dakan champing at the bit to retrieve her.

When Dakan flew up from his seat, he jostled the turian officer next to him. The datapad cradled in the officer's talons clattered onto the floor. Its frame cracked. The officer's cursing and Dakan's tirade cut off the senior detective's address.

"Our deal with Neve assured her extraction if she encountered trouble."

"_If_, detective," Chellik said, not bothering to keep the irritation out of his primary vocals. "_If _she encountered trouble. We have no proof she's in danger, only that our equipment is faulty. Correct, technician Caruso?"

Sam's face blanched. He tugged at his already loose collar and his adam's apple bobbed. When he answered, he spoke to his interface.

"That could be the case, sir. There's no way we can know if the informant unintentionally obstructed the cybernetic's functionality before it successfully implanted. The prolonged high frequency feedback logged after her return to the suite suggests inadvertent tampering. It could have occurred during her prep time before the shoot. All those lights she was under could have shorted the device as well."

"There you have it, detective." Chellik gestured at the vacated bench. "Take your seat."

But Dakan did not sit. His hardsuit gloves squeaked like crumpled vinyl when he balled and unballed his fists. The "prolonged feedback" logged on their system didn't sit right with him. The fly-like humming that whined from the clean room's speakers sounded a lot like whisper-range drell communications he'd intercepted on an old case. The supposed feedback might have been Vlair Upshad vocalizing at a register none could interpret. That the feed didn't cut until Dalessia Kella entered the suite was also suspicious. With Dakan's hackles already up he wasn't about to back down at Chellik's command.

"Let me lead a distraction team," he blurted.

The entire squad—Sirrus, Karakik, Sam, and two turian officers Dakan wasn't acquainted with—tried to disguise their discomfort. Legs crossed, heads turned, throats cleared. Chellik remained motionless, his jaw hanging open on the sentence he'd been unable to utter.

"You don't want me on undercover detail anyway."

"No," Chellik said, tilting his head in his subordinate's direction, "I don't, but the squad needs your skill. If you're quite finished, we have tactics to discuss and an event to get to, not to mention a dignitary to protect."

Dakan ambled forward, crowding the senior detective. "I'm not finished. Neve is—"

"_Neve_ can wait." The senior detective faced Dakan, tipped up his head fringe, and splayed his mandibles to their limit. The observing turians in the room tensed at the challenge. Dakan mirrored his superior's stance, but neither struck. Chellik broke the charged silence.

"A harsh reality, perhaps, but a stripper—"

Dakan lunged at the word, then stiffened, reigned himself in. All around them, hands lowered from non-lethal side arms.

"A stripper," Chellik continued, "doesn't take precedence over Earth's ambassador. You would understand that if you were thinking with your brain and not your balls."

Backing down, Dakan shook out of his dominant stance. Chellik did the same, finally able to address his team. Yes, the senior detective was correct, but he wasn't right. One life held over another, why? Birth? Class? The ability to kiss ass and yell louder than anyone else in a room? The ruthless calculus of politics: sacrifice the average, save the affluent. Where was the justice in that? Dakan sank onto the bench and shielded his face with his hands.

The meeting went on another hour before Chellik dismissed the squad. They had orders to be in gear and ready to deploy by four. Until then, they were at leisure as long as they remained at the hub. While everyone else filed out of the clean room, Dakan lingered on the bench. Sam dragged his feet collecting his gear. The human snuck furtive glances at Dakan while he packed up his portable interface and the rest of the surveillance equipment. Chellik had strong armed Sam into getting all the dirt on Neve so he could trap her into this informant gig. Why the human seemed so guilty over doing his duty, Dakan couldn't fathom. He stared at his friend through his laced fingers.

"Will you stick with her feed, Sam? Notify me if you get reconnected?"

A half-hearted half-smile curved Sam's mouth. "Sure, buddy. Whatever you want."

"Thanks, Sam," Dakan said and trudged from the room.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Want to mention there are two direct line rips in this fic. One of them is the "blowing off steam" line I gave to Dakan before he and Neve got it on. "Blowing off steam" is a nod to Garrus's dialogue with Shepard in ME2 when he's discussing a military hookup of his right before a battle. The other rip is in this chapter. "Ruthless calculus" is another bit of Garrus' dialogue from ME3. I love the poetry of those two words and wanted to have them here, but I'm not the writer behind them. Credit goes to Bioware's writing/creative team (obviously with all the rest of the ME universe as well.)_


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33: The Dreams In Which I'm Dying Are The Best I've Ever Had**

The human woman next to Dakan snatched his tuxedo jacket's sleeve and shook it.

"I'm sorry?" He asked, dazed.

"Have you been listening to a word I've said?"

Dakan embraced multi-species socialization, however, parties, especially lavish affairs such as this, bored him. At this event he had two jobs: one – protect Udina and two – find out what happened to Neve. All his focus narrowed to those tasks. Indulging this woman in conversation brought him no closer to either of his goals.

"No," Dakan said.

The woman gaped at him, blinked. "Are you for real?"

"Apparently."

Rolling her eyes, she said, "Fine, whatever. Have a blast," and sashayed into the loose crowd, her gold spangled gown flashing under the flattering mood overheads. Karakik's voice radioed over his chat-bud.

"Smooth, Dakan."

Grumbling, the detective crossed his arms and monitored the ballroom, searching for Dalessia Kella, Vlair Upshad, Neve, or any suspicious activity. Chellik's undercover squad wasn't the only security detail out en force. C-Sec officers in their navy regulation hardsuits manned the entrance and stood at attention along the walls like statuary, side arms in hand. Had Dakan a bottom lip he would have pouted it. He longed for his comfortable and familiar hardsuit. Beneath his formal tunic—he worried the structured garment's collar which nearly choked him—he wore a set of Kassa Fabrication under armor plates. Concealed in his trouser fastening was a kinetic shield generator. His reliable Kessler V was tucked in his dorsal shell. To any of the politicos and CEOs and various VIPs clinking glasses and chatting he was just another guest, albeit an antisocial guest. The appeal of events like this eluded him.

As a rookie officer Dakan had done his time with the wall clingers and door guarders at a hundred well-to-do parties. The same questions circled his mind then as they did now while he paced a circuit of the room. Why have delicious spreads of food when no one ever made a plate? People and aliens around him held tumblers, wine glasses, champagne flutes filled with fizzing gold liquid. If a glass didn't occupy someone's hands they gestured rapidly when they spoke.

Dakan passed the buffet of turian-safe food. The heat lamps made him stuffy in his tunic, but he leaned in for a whiff anyhow. Steam from the hot vegetable tray condensed on his face plates. Plucking a linen napkin from the small stack next to the food, he drew away from the long table and sponged the damp from his brow and jaw. His stomach burbled. Though he craved a plate he couldn't make one. He had to be ready for action at any time, so he continued his rounds. The sole difference between this event and galas of the past, besides his promotion to undercover work, was the number of humans in the crowd.

When Dakan was completely green at C-Sec—a rookie piping hot out of the academy—he could count the number of humans he encountered per day on one hand. Turians didn't have many fingers either. At political events like this, having a human in attendance was either a taboo or a novelty. No one invited them because they had any influence. Humans got invited because they were good for a laugh. Not so anymore. Tonight, humanity hosted a five star event for their alien neighbors. They held their gala in commander Shepard's honor, puffing up their chests at their first spectre's phenomenal achievements.

_How much they've achieved_, Dakan thought, considering a group of the pink and brown skinned aliens surrounding an animated Barla Von. _And so quickly_. The First Contact War wasn't so long ago.

Distancing himself from the well dressed throng, Dakan angled his face to the wall and murmured into the comm receiver hidden in his tunic's collar.

"What's Udina's position?"

Static fuzzed the group comm feed, then a quiet, clipped voice came over the line.

"The ambassador's at the north end of the ballroom. Near the dais. Anderson's with him. They're due to deliver speeches in the next forty-five."

It was Sirrus who'd answered Dakan. The detective craned his neck and spotted the salarian hovering near a clutch of his own kind. Salarians had traditional formal garb like the turians and asari and elcor, but Sirrus had opted for a human-style tuxedo. To Dakan, the suit appeared comical on the alien's awkward frame and he wasn't the only non-human in human-imitation garb. Their host species' culture had become trendy over the last few months. Dakan didn't experiment with clothes unless a case required it. Noticing the detective's attention, Sirrus cocked his head in acknowledgement and jutted his chin northward.

At the foot of a small stage outfitted with a large screen and slender podium, Donald Udina engaged a group of humans. Captain David Anderson, a dark skinned human in an Alliance dress uniform, flanked Udina's left side. The captain's eyes were alert. They darted back and forth over the crowd, then his gaze fixed on something ahead of him and his mouth opened.

A whistle came over Dakan's chat-bud.

"That's what I'm talking about," the single human officer on the stealth squad said.

Dakan was in the middle of rolling his eyes at the officer's lack of restraint when he saw what had everyone else at the party whispering to each other and pointing.

It was Neve.

At the sight of her, a pulse of adrenaline sent a tingling shudder under Dakan's carapace. His mouth dried. Fingers and toes pricked with pins and needles. He shook his hands, did a little step until the numbness left his feet. No one in the room could take their eyes off her.

Neve's skin glowed under the mood overheads. And there was a lot of it on display. The black lace gown she wore was cut to the center of her torso. Dakan swallowed. There was nothing under the sheer dress. The lace pattern became dense at the covered slivers of her breasts and over her lower parts. No one got an eyeful of anything they shouldn't, but she cut it damn close. An asari in a pinstripe suit guided Neve through the splitting crowd. The asari had a bracing arm against the dancer's back. Dakan didn't think anyone noticed that Neve wobbled on every second step. So did her head. Was she drunk? What was she doing here? He marched toward the pair of women headed to the back of the ballroom, then stopped himself, clenched the sides of his trousers, and gritted his teeth. He couldn't go to her. A NOVA chameleon operative had breached the party. He had to report her position. Then he had to devise a way to get her out of this.

Sidling to the wall, Dakan put his back to the crowd and spoke into his concealed comm receiver.

"Neve Cezetti is here."

"I see her," Sirrus replied. "Headed this way. If she's following the operative's usual pattern, she'll ingratiate herself with the ambassador and leave. Unfortunate her wire feed cut. May have been sabotage."

"No way," Dakan said and heard Karakik snort over the group feed. "This is Kella's doing."

The detective searched out the asari. How could he have missed her? Ah. He hadn't. Dalessia Kella made her entrance with Vlair Upshad on her arm.

"I have Kella and Upshad," Dakan said. "They're going for the bar."

"Noted, detective Tallen. Maintain surveillance of Kella and Upshad. Karakik, back him up. The rest of us will keep a loose perimeter around Cezetti and companion." Sirrus went off the line and Dakan covered his comm receiver so no one heard the string of curses he let fly.

Regulated to babysitting duty, Dakan couldn't help Neve. The walls closed in around her. The stealth squad wouldn't hesitate to take her down should she step out of line.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

* * *

An inquisitive crowd mobs Neve. Women ask about her dress, her hair artfully piled atop her head, her makeup. Her date. She and Enel field an overwhelming amount of attention. Vlair hisses his disapproval as he fishes a credit chit from her trouser pocket. The human bartender places two glasses of elasa before him. Vlair exchanges his chit for the liquor and motions for no change. He knuckles one drink to Kella. Beside him, the asari grips the bar. Silver and pearl beadwork on her gown shivers, tinkling as a tremor shakes her. The muscles of her back, on full display in her backless dress, knot. Controlling Neve saps more of the asari's strength than usual.

"Bringing Enel was overkill," Vlair says, brings his drink to his lips, takes a pretend sip. "At this rate, Neve will make contact with Udina by midnight."

Kella's fingers dig into the bar's counter. Gleaming nails plow grooves in the darkwood varnish.

"And it doesn't look like you'll last that long," Vlair comments.

Kella lifts herself, snatches her drink. "I'm fine. It's the distance. She's harder to control the further she gets from me." She sucks down half of the elasa in one go.

"That's never happened before." Again, Vlair lets the liquor touch his lips, but he doesn't swallow. He licks the sticky-sweet medicinal residue from his mouth. Alcohol dulls his senses and he must remain vigilant for this half-assed plan of Kella's to work. And he has his own last minute plot to set in motion.

Like everyone else at the party, the C-Sec troops stationed around the room and at every entrance and exit watch Neve. These officers with their hardsuits and big guns are decoys. C-Sec put them there to make the ignorant masses feel safe. They're not the ones Vlair pays any mind. No. He scans the crowd itself. The real security will be mixed in with them, camouflaged in formal attire, armed with weapons no one can see until they're drawn. At this party, Vlair has the advantage. C-Sec is aware of NOVA's plans and also aware of Neve's involvement. The undercover officers on duty should stick close to the dancer. If he watches the crowd around Neve, he'll find them. It doesn't take long. He spots a human first, then a turian. They give themselves away, lifting drinks to their mouths so they can speak unnoticed, touching their collars where their comms are likely hidden. Vlair has used all those tricks too. They don't work on him.

Kella swivels away from the bar. Her swirling drink overtops the rim of her glass. Green drops of elasa spatter the marble floor.

"We have to get closer."

Grabbing her elbow, Vlair whispers into the asari's ear. "You know that's not tactically sound. I've already counted two undercover officers in close proximity with Neve. We get closer to her, we get closer to them."

"If we don't get closer to her, I can't maintain our connection and we fail. Besides," the asari smiles at him, "haven't you noticed our pair of admirers?"

As they wend through the crowd, closing the distance between themselves and the dancer, Vlair takes stock of their surroundings. He doesn't—wait. There. The turian hugging the wall. Vlair recognizes those amber colony markings. He snorts derisive laughter. Admittedly, Neve's turian is good. He blends well with the VIPs and the tail he keeps on them is only just noticeable. A partner or two should be somewhere to their right. Yes, another turian and this one's clumsier than Neve's cast off sweetheart.

"I see your point," Vlair says. "Are we close enough?"

Linen draped tables surround the stage. Sitting at one in the furthest row would be best.

"No. Over there." Kella points to the crescent shaped booths along the wall near the stage. "I want to be within earshot of Udina. That will put me close enough to Neve."

Vlair speaks through his clenched jaw. "That's too close. Is the compound breaking down?"

"The compound's dandy." Kella tenses in the middle of her statement, grunts, and trips on her gown's floor length hem. Vlair steadies her, but they bump into another asari who glares at them. He offers apologies on Kella's behalf and steers her to her booth of choice.

"It's Neve," Kella continues once she has herself under command. "When I dosed her the first time, she didn't know what was going on. Her mind was submissive, malleable. Now she knows everything. The effects of the drug. What we intend to do with her. When I 'woke' her in the skycar she was aware. She's fighting me. You can see it if you know what to look for."

The booth's red leather upholstery creaks and farts when they scooch further onto the cushioned bench. A single candle flickers in a frosted sconce on the circular table in front of them. Vlair finds Neve among her passel of hangers on and studies her for signs of struggle. Sure enough, he sees what Kella means. Every so often, Neve's head jerks in an awkward direction. The motion is slight. No one around her seems to notice. When she jerks her head, her gray eyes, which are dumb and dull, become bright with ferocious clarity. At those moments, Kella bears down, clenches the edge of the table until Neve's strength wanes and the asari has control once more. Enel chatters away, answering questions directed at Neve so Kella doesn't have to make the dancer speak often. When Neve confronts Udina, Kella will need every ounce of her remaining energy to engineer their strike. A sheen of sweat makes the asari's plum colored skin glisten. She bows her head, thrusts her handbag into Vlair's lap, and presses her eyelids with two fingers.

"These damn contacts. Feels like someone's sprinkled sand over my eyes. There's a bottle of solution in my bag."

While Kella links with Neve, her eyes are black with fugue-darkness. She wears full coverage contacts that hide the symptom. Whatever vid or still footage C-Sec captures of Kella won't offer any physical proof of she and the dancer's linkage. Vlair paws through the glittering purse and removes a small white bottle. Grabbing it from him, Kella tilts back her head and squeezes a few drops of soothing solution into each eye.

The undercover team tracking Neve moves with her from their remote positions, but they don't get any nearer to her.

_They won't be prepared for an assassination attempt tonight_, Vlair thinks. _NOVA has never gone this far off protocol._

Feigning a wolfish leer at a nearby human woman in a breast plumping dress, the drell keeps the undercover turian—Neve's turian—assigned to himself and Kella in his periphery. The turian orbits a trio of his brethren, not interrupting their conversation, but standing close enough to be mistaken as one of their group. When they laugh, he laughs and does the same periphery observation Vlair has perfected over the years. Watching them won't do C-Sec any good. To any eye or campanion focus lens at this party, Vlair and Kella will be innocent bystanders at a devastating moment in humanity's history.

Not long now.

Neve's not more than a few feet from the ambassador. Udina straightens his tie, runs a hand over his close cropped hair. He's inviting death with open arms.

_And likely a hard dick._

Not that Vlair holds that against the human. The drell drinks in Neve's form for the last time. If C-Sec doesn't kill her outright, she'll be locked up until the end of her days, rotting in some tiny cell. Destroying beauty he hasn't sampled pisses him off. Neve Cezetti will never look at Vlair Upshad like she needs nothing in the universe but him. Tonight, neither of them will ever be seen again.

"Get ready, Vlair," Kella says as Neve closes on her target.

_Oh, I am._

More ready than Kella thinks.

When Neve comes into striking range, the asari's telepathic link will consume her. With Kella so occupied, Vlair can end their relationship. Quietly. Permanently.

Why deliver Kella to C-Sec for prosecution when killing her would give him endless amounts of satisfaction?

In the chaos following Udina's death, any C-Sec officers assigned to Vlair and Kella will be busy with crowd control and subduing Neve. Dalessia Kella's death will have no witnesses. One tackle—which will look like he's shielding her from the carnage on any surveillance feeds—and one snap of the neck and Vlair will have his freedom. An injury won't be hard to come by once this pampered crowd panics. After he's transported to the hospital, he can bribe, or aggressively coerce, a volunteer to falsify his death in their records. The drive containing Aridi Sin's shipping manifest, records of NOVA's contacts, and lists of top agents is his failsafe. Should C-Sec come after him, he can barter the data for his autonomy. Or sell it back to NOVA. Or the highest bidder. Simple.

Laughter from Udina's circle turns Vlair's head. The ambassador sticks out his chest and squares his shoulders as Neve draws closer. He raises his voice to the other humans he speaks with.

"There was never any doubt Shepard was the woman for the job." Udina's accent lends an interesting cadence to his words. "She has Saren cornered on Virmire."

The Alliance captain next to Udina goes red-faced. His fist balls. He shoves both hands into his pockets and clears his throat.

"Ambassador—"

Chuckling, Udina claps the captain on the back.

"Yes, yes, captain, I know. Privileged information." He winks at his little audience. "Don't spread it around."

A man holding a tumbler of half-melted ice speaks up. "Ambassador, what of the Reapers?"

The ambassador's smile grows strained. "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

"There was hearsay after the details of Saren's trial were released about a threat greater than the geth."

Udina waves his hand. "Rumors. Nothing more. Saren and the geth is our enemy and Shepard has that under control. As we knew she would."

The captain shakes his head. He can't keep quiet.

"Damnit, it's not rumors or a lucid dream of Shepard's. The protheans sent us a warning on Eden Prime and we'd be fools if w—"

"As Alliance regulations demand, captain, all avenues will be investigated." Udina rolls his eyes. "No matter how preposterous." He brightens again as Neve finally reaches her destination.

The humans around Udina make room for the dancer and Enel. Udina extends his hand. The back of Vlair's neck prickles. He holds his breath. This is it.

"A pleasure to meet you, my dear. Donald Udina, ambassador to Earth. You are?"

Neve's lifting her hand when Kella speaks through her.

"The end of you."

Confusion darkens the ambassador's face. Neve's hand doesn't come to a rest in his. It keeps going up. Biotic energy shimmers down her arm. Bright blue light flares at the center of her upturned palm. Her hand is level with Udina's chest when she cocks back her arm.

C-Sec's already in motion. They won't make it. Those closest to Udina haven't registered their peril. It's only just dawning on the captain whose eyes widen. Neve's head twists. Her features contort in agony.

"Goddess damn it all." Kella growls. The table shakes in her grip. The candle topples and goes out. Sweat drips from the tip of her nose onto the tabletop. "Not yet. You can't get away from me yet."

Ripe with a lethal amount of biotic energy, Neve's hand thrusts forward as she screams, "No!"

The dancer's arm veers sharply to the right.

Like a cannon blast, the collected energy explodes from Neve's hand. Udina doesn't take a direct hit. No one does, but the force of the detonation wreaks havoc on everyone within a two foot radius of Neve.

The shockwave blasts Udina into the captain. The men go flying back into the stage and collide with the podium. Neither gets up. Enel and the rest of the humans are knocked onto their asses. The screaming starts. The frenzied panic begins. Kella pounds the tabletop and shrieks.

"No, damnit! No!"

Kella's coup is over. There won't be a second attempt. Vlair's been coiled and ready for his own strike since Udina greeted Neve. He launches himself at Kella, wraps his arms about her in a crushing bear hug. The asari's back slaps the booth's cushioned seat. Kella snarls. Vlair scrabbles up, pinning the asari in place with a hand to her chest. His other hand goes to her throat. With all the biotics she's channeled through Neve, she should be drained for a good three minutes. But Kella never relies on her biotics alone. Her arm shoots out and she gets her own grip on Vlair's neck. The drell smiles a sadistic smile. She's not strong enough to—

Something pricks his neck.

There's stinging.

Burning.

Fire spreads from the side of his throat all the way down his arm.

A knee drives into Vlair's gut. He grunts and collapses. Tries to get up. Can't. Kella wriggles from beneath him, flips him over, peers into his face. She holds her hand where he can see.

The device banding Kella's wrist, which he thought was a bracelet, collapses into its smooth shape, but not before Vlair recognizes the needle that's injected him. He gasps as fiery whips lash and wrap about his heart. They constrict. He wheezes. His muscles seize and his teeth involuntarily clench. Kella bends to his ear so he can hear her over the rising din around them.

"Did you really think after centuries of espionage and keeping one step ahead of my enemies that I haven't learned to watch my own people?"

A hand eases into Vlair's jacket. Kella dangles the drive, his failsafe, over his head.

"Did you really think I didn't know?"

The drive disappears into Kella's bag. Gunfire startles the asari, makes her jump.

"I'll miss you, Vlair, truly." A soft kiss is planted on his forehead. "You were a lot of fun."

Kella leaves him floundering in the booth. His arms and legs are stiff. He inhales fire, not air. Flopping on the cushioned seat, Vlair manages to slide halfway off the bench. Cold marble mushes his cheek. Right when he's about to push himself completely onto the floor, something that feels like a dagger sized shard of dry ice stabs into his heart.

No one hears his pained bellow.

No one's going to help him.

He's paralyzed. Dying.

The last thing Vlair sees is Neve. Her eyes are wild. Her mouth opens. C-Sec swarms around her.

Then his eyes close and he sees and knows nothing at all.


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: Nobody Gets Out Alive**

Waking dreams, the sort where you know you're dreaming but you can't move and can't wake up, terrify me.

This is fifty times worse.

The AY-Eternity compound laced drug locks me inside my body. Dalessia's invading presence smothers me. It's a wet wool blanket draped over my mind. There are threadbare patches in the blanket, weak points in the asari's will. Though my body doesn't move, I kick and punch against her possession. Sometimes I break free. My rallies never last long. I can't sift all the sights and sounds, smells and sensations assaulting me and fight off Dalessia.

In my moments of brief lucidity, my surroundings tear into the rosy fog in which I'm suspended. Faces and bodies zoom at me. Discordant chatter shrieks in my ears. The world swirls about me like water circling a drain. While I'm distracted, the asari's psyche congeals around mine, drags me back under her influence. I'm a hostage in my body, bound and gagged and forced to view my actions from the confines of my skull.

Power builds inside me as I get nearer to Udina. It accumulates in my belly. All the fine hairs on my body rise with its charge. This is biotic energy. I've used this power once before in the aftermath of my first sand blasting courtesy of Dalessia Kella. The minor amount of energy I wielded at the patrolman who'd come to take me to Chellik is nothing like what flows in me now.

Dalessia channels more energy into me. My cells thrum with the excess juice. My insides are a furnace. A pulse hammers at the base of my skull. Sharp pain zips along my neural pathways with each firing synapse. My bones and teeth rattle. This much power should break me.

I'm stronger than I thought.

But am I strong enough?

Physically, I'm not much. Yeah, I'm in shape, but I'm not super strong. Throwing punches and kicking ass isn't my thing. Mentally, though, I can withstand a lot. I survived my revolving door mother, the chaos she brought with her whenever she came sailing into my grandmother and I's lives, with my sanity intact. Grandma's death hurt me more than I believed I could ever be hurt, but it didn't break me. My inner-most self grew a tough outer layer like my callused feet, strengthened with years of dance. Round two came when we lost Allen, all our wealth and status, and I lost my mom to her worst vices. Again.

Who took care of us when there was no one to turn to?

Me.

Who paid her own way to the Citadel, made a life for herself, and kept her own mother off the streets at the same time?

Me.

So, when Dalessia Kella struts me up to the ambassador and biotic power rolls from my stomach into my torso and sets my right arm ablaze with blue-violet fire, I know I've got what it takes to throw off the asari's mental shackles. Life hasn't beat me yet. I won't grant Dalessia Kella that honor.

My inner-self shifts under the vacu-sealed sheath of Dalessia's influence. The asari bears down on my mental gymnastics. Fighting her is like fighting against quicksand. The more I struggle, the more she sucks me down. My heart pump-pumpity-pumps, overclocked with the drug, adrenaline, the biotic influx, and my useless inner-exertions. There's a way out of this mental prison. Everyone's got vulnerable points. I have to find Dalessia's before she makes me kill Udina. I'm right in front of him. Close enough to smell his expensive cologne. The scent of cinnamon tickles my nose.

_Don't let it shake you_, I tell myself. _He's still standing. You have time._

Go big or go home. Do it like you're dying or don't do it at all. That's how I live everyday and that's how I fight—when I can. But bigger and harder and stronger isn't always better. Sometimes you have to be smarter. Throwing around my mental weight isn't shaking Dalessia for long and it's tiring me out. So, this time, I don't flail around my skull. I draw myself in, become as small as I can imagine myself. The affects are immediate.

Dalessia's engulfing consciousness shudders and contracts as the ambassador addresses us. The asari's used to my larger-than-life presence and all-about-me attitude. Making myself smaller? She's not expecting it and suddenly there's less "me" for her to hold on to. I'm not free, but I've bought myself some psychic wiggle room. Dalessia's determined I don't keep it. She gropes for me, her consciousness contracting around space I used to fill. Drawing myself in tighter, I evade total recapture. This little trick of mine won't hold her off forever and despite my bit of inner-autonomy, the asari still masters my body. There's got to be something I can do.

That's when I feel it. I didn't notice it before because I was so focused on Dalessia.

A rhythm exists inside me. A beat. A signature all my own. I'm pulled so far inward I can't help but feel it, like the pulse of blood through a swollen finger. Once I identify my own beat, I discern the other forces at work in me.

If I'm a bright white ball, an incandescent mote in my mind, Dalessia is a dome, a violet shell hugging the inside of my skull. She pipes herself into me via our connection. Now that I'm paying attention, I see it. A pinhole…not in my skull, but in myself somehow. A network of luminous spider veins web off of the Dalessia-dome and spread into my body. This is how she puppets me, with telekinetic armature. Some of these Dalessia-tendrils spear my belly, plunging themselves into the violent power roiling there. Biotics flow through the web. The asari pumps the energy into my arm and feeds herself with it. The kinetic fuel replenishes her, keeps her strong. If she can tap that power source, so can I.

Udina's lips move in slow motion, his mouth twisting and pursing around garbled words I can't decipher. Glistening sweat pocks the space under his nose and mists his temples. A pink tongue flicks and the moisture at his upper lip is swept away. His hand extends outward, his movements sluggish. A scalding lance drives into my palm. My hand jumps with the energy surge, my skin a poor vessel for all this force.

Now or never.

I try stretching for the biotic core and I almost come apart. Holding myself in while releasing a slight strand of my being is tougher than Dalessia makes it seem. My inner-self wants to expand. I won't allow it. Carefully, I trickle downward. The swirling biotics draw me deeper. They're an inescapable vortex. A vein of white light shoots from my mote-self to the blue core burning at my middle. I tap that power and inner-me screams, burns. Sizzling energy rockets up the fishing line of myself I've cast into that biotic inferno. The brilliant ball I've become flares brighter as I'm super charged with more force than I can possibly harness. In a second I'll lose control of the power raging within me.

That's the plan.

My radiance compounds. The rosy fog clouding my inner-eye burns away. I'm seeing in real time. No one around me moves in that slow, dreamy way. The last of the ambassador's words reach me.

"—and you are?" He asks, his hand outstretched, awaiting my touch.

When my biotic primed right arm goes up and back I know Dalessia doesn't have a handshake in mind. I can't stop her. Not without control of my body and brain.

I hear myself answer, "The end of you."

My charged arm pistons outward. A lethal tangle of blinding energy consumes my weaponized hand which aims at the ambassador's chest.

With my inner-eye I zero in on the link between me and Dalessia. That's my target. I launch at that pinpoint where the asari channels her will into mine. On impact, the power I've sucked from the biotic nova at my center explodes. It takes everything I've got to ram that violent discharge down Dalessia's psychic tether. Our link scrambles and shorts. Dalessia's bounced from my mind and my body. I'm turned inside out as I scream, "No!"

I'm still screaming when I twist my arm off its fatal course with Udina. The movement's pure reflex and it's only just enough to prevent a direct hit on the ambassador. Energy cannonballs from my hand and puts a head-sized hole in the wall behind Udina's retinue. Those around me don't escape unscathed.

Udina's blown off his feet. The man in the Alliance uniform at his side tries to catch the ambassador, but the force of the blast is too much. Both men are knocked into the stage where they land in a heap with the podium. The biotic shockwave flattens everyone else around me.

The world shrieks at my senses. Dalessia's presence restrained me and also dampened sight, sound, touch, smell. It was like walking around mummified in layers of wet cotton. With the asari gone there's no barrier between me and my surroundings and the intense stimulus disorients me.

A shrill whistle deafens me. My skull resonates with the sound. Screaming. That's what it is. Men, women, and aliens flee the ballroom. The bass drum pound of their stampeding footfalls sends tremors up my legs. I whip my head around, searching for a way out.

A red film coats everything. The overheads hurt my eyes. The winking glitter of spangled gowns distracts me, makes me blink. Open mouthed, wide eyed faces veer in and out of my perception. Someone, a turian, is suddenly too close. He levels a weapon at me, a rifle. My arm swings out. I only mean to protect myself—as much as I can totally unarmed—but I discover the power I house is nowhere near depleted.

Biotic energy sloshes inside me, moving with the twist and turn of my body. When my arm flings out, I cast a bolt of that wild power at the turian officer who bares his teeth at me. The blue boomerang snaps the officer's head back and tosses him into the confused crowd where he lands, knocking over several aliens in fancy dress like toppled bowling pins. Crossing my arms over my chest, I dig my nails into my shoulders and curl over, squeeze my eyes shut.

Dalessia harnessed the dark energy she channeled into me. I'm not a biotic. I don't know how to direct all this raw power. It pulses beneath my skin. I taste it at the back of my throat. The metallic tang doesn't subside no matter how many times I swallow. Energy flashes through me, ready to leap from my fingertips, my arms, my mouth. It's a feral beast pacing a second rate cage. It will get out or tear me apart trying.

Hollow barking buffets me on all sides. I crack open one eye. Hardsuited C-Sec officers surround me, each armed with a rifle aimed in my direction. Their mouths open and close, making noises I don't understand until one of them, a human man, steps forward.

"Get your hands up. Get them up!"

I clutch myself tighter. They don't know what they're asking. I can't put my hands up without detonating the biotic WMD in my gut. The circle of officers closes around me. They all shout the same thing.

"Get your hands up!"

"Get away from me," I shout. The words come out slurred. They can't hear me. The human who's ventured closer than the rest shakes his gun at me.

"Get your hands up and get on your knees. We're authorized to use lethal force. Do you understand?"

"You don't understand." The energy kicks inside me and I lurch like I'm about to be sick. "You've got to get away from me. I can't—"

The officer's rifle hits the floor. He charges me, arms stretched wide.

I don't mean to hurt him.

I don't mean to hurt any of them, but when that officer comes in for his tackle, my arms go up. A lot of energy goes with them.

The officer barrels into a shimmering wave that rolls off my arm. It pitches him into the air. His body craters the far wall when he slams into it. The other officers in the wave's path take a knee or hit the ground, unable to stand against the dissipating assault.

"Take her out," a woman at my right hollers.

I pivot as three officers point their weapons at me. Three black muzzles flash white. I shriek and thrust out my hands. Twin beams of crackling fire blast from my palms. I'm a fire hose on full torrent. The bullets never reach me. They're incinerated by the energy pouring from my hands. My arms shake. Zaps of electricity spark from my pores. I start curling my trembling fingers into fists. I can't see the officers in my line of fire. They're either down or dead. A sob I can't control makes my breath hitch. I don't want to kill anyone.

My fists close around the energy flow, stanching it. The unspent biotics have my hands glowing. Tongues of blue flame dart from the creases separating my fingers. In front of me, an officer, another human man, lies face down with his hands covering his head. He peeks up at me, turns his head to the right where the female officer who called for my death drags her partner clear of the scuffle. The turian she hauls off bellows. A taloned hand gropes the side of his face. Gouts of dark blue blood pour through his fingers. One of his legs kinks out from his hip at an off angle. There's a giant hole in the wall behind them. The edges of the ruined wallpaper burn orange, curl up, and turn black.

"Stand down!" The order echoes at this near deserted end of the ballroom. A riot of well dressed bodies crams the main entrance. The officers there are overrun. I search for the owner of the commanding voice. I don't find him, but I do see a few aliens and a single human in formal wear approach me cautiously. They hold pistols at their sides.

"Don't come any closer," I scream at them. My glowing, jittering fists are aimed at the wall. Energy surges from my arms to the power core in my belly and back again in a closed circuit. Each revolution is stronger than the last. When I can't hold back any longer, the detonation will be explosive. The armed squad creeps closer.

"You have to get away from me!"

"Listen to her."

The voice that calls out is not the voice that ordered the squad to stand down. I recognize this voice. It's Dakan's.

I twist my head around. Wisps of hair escaped from my updo get in my red-hazed eyes, but I see him. He's several feet away, standing perfectly still. He's unarmed and unarmored, clad in a simple tunic and trousers. A salarian stands a few paces behind the detective, his had outstretched as if in warning. The salarian touches his collar, speaks.

"Everyone stand down. Give the detective room. Report to the main entrance. Assist the officers there with the evacuation."

The un-uniformed officers back away from me. Their salarian commander and the Alliance officer from the ambassador's retinue follows them to the ballroom's entrance after retrieving an unconscious Udina. Dakan and I are alone with the few motionless bodies on the floor.

"Please," I whisper to him as sweat trickles down my cheeks and the back of my neck.

The energy inside me gathers more momentum. My arms tire and the biotics pound against my closed fists. If Dakan isn't out of the way when my strength gives out, I'll kill him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: These Guilty Feet Have Got No Rhythm**

In the chaos after the attempt on Udina's life, there were several occasions when Dakan thought Neve was surely dead.

Coldness spread through his chest. His stomach and lungs became leaden, but he didn't stop running. He wouldn't stop until he saw her lifeless at his feet. Then he'd take down the officers responsible and damn the consequences.

The crowd was a swamp separating Dakan from his target. He bumped and shoved people out of his way. All the while he shouted at Sirrus over the group comm feed.

"I'm in transit. If you keep the rest of the squad back I can—"

A brilliant flash lit the far side of the ballroom. None of the officers on site were licensed biotics. Neve had to be the source of the display. A hardsuited body catapulted over the crowd. Dakan ducked when the unfortunate decoy officer sailed overhead. The human hit the wall hard and didn't get up. The remnants of Neve's shockwave gusted passed Dakan, making him sway. The chat-bud in his ear crackled.

"Detective Tallen, come in."

"Sirrus, call those men back."

An impatient sigh came over the group feed. "My priority is the ambassador. I'm almost—"

Gunfire erupted over the din of the spooked crowd. Breathing grew difficult. Air knifed into Dakan's lungs. An icy, invisible fist squeezed his heart. He forced himself onward, his stiff legs burning with exertion. If they'd taken Neve down…He pushed the salarian in his path too hard. The alien tripped over his own feet and almost sprawled, belly down on the ballroom floor.

A beacon of blue incandescence had Dakan pushing himself past his physical limits. If the biotics still flew, Neve was alive. And when he breached the crowd, skidded into the clearing where only C-Sec officers dared tread, he found everything he'd hoped wasn't true.

Feet planted, Neve withstood the incredible force pouring out of her. Her whole body trembled with it. The officers who'd lined her up in their sights scattered. None were dead, thank the spirits, but she clipped at least one turian who howled on the floor until his partner retrieved him. As Neve temporarily stemmed the flow of her biotics, Sirrus' voice chirped in Dakan's ear.

"Stealth squad, move up."

"No," Dakan said, countering. "Fall back. I can contain her. I'm already here."

Sirrus didn't sound pleased. "You're already where?"

Confirming his position, Dakan braced himself for the dressing down he deserved.

"And what is Kella's status, detective? She and Upshad were your targets."

"I've got Kella," officer Karakik interrupted. Huffing breaths broke up his speech. "She's at the exit, elbowing her way to the front. I can intercept—"

"No," Sirrus barked. "Close ranks around the operative. Kella's not getting off the Presidium. We've flagged every resident ID in attendance. They're all restricted to the ring until we've concluded our investigation. Is Upshad with her?"

"The drell is down," Karakik said. "And he's not moving."

Sirrus snarled over the group feed. "Damnit. We need emergency response. Secure the operative."

Cursing, Dakan pinched his collar and hissed into his receiver. "The operative is too volatile. I'm watching her right now."

The dark energy erupting from Neve's hands cut off. How long her control would last was questionable. The dancer quaked with the biotics surging inside her. A blue-violent sheen encased her body. Her fists glowed with contained force. Anything could set her off which was why Dakan volunteered himself to intercept her.

"Sirrus, believe me, if you pull the squad up she will go nuclear. I can end this without a block-wide biotic incident."

"That's not your decision, detective."

The voice didn't travel over the group feed. Sirrus spoke from behind Dakan. The detective faced the stealth squad leader.

"No, but this is my responsibility," Dakan said.

The salarian shook his head and glanced sidelong to where Karakik and the human officer advanced on Neve. Dakan paced in place, fidgeted with the shield generator concealed in his trouser fastenings.

"Squad leader, this is a mistake that will cost lives. Hers and theirs." Dakan inclined his head in the encroaching officers' direction.

Sirrus blinked at him. The salarian's thin lips worked together. Then he called to his team.

"Stand down!"

The officers hesitated, unsure of this alteration in their objective.

"Don't come any closer."

The shouted order had alerted Neve to the team creeping up on her. Her body shone with a sudden spike of biotics. Her arms jumped with the rush of power and her chest heaved with her strained breaths.

With a nod to the human officer at his side, Karakik—the idiot—crept closer. His partner followed suit. Neve's scream tore through her labored breath.

"You have to get away from me!"

Dakan couldn't hold back any longer.

"Listen to her."

The entire squad focused on Dakan and Sirrus. They waited to see who their leader would back. Karakik or Dakan? Neve stared wide-eyed at the detective, her hair disheveled and wild about her face.

Sirrus paused for a half-beat, then said, "Everyone stand down. Give the detective room. Report to the main entrance. Assist the officers there with the evacuation."

Like that, the squad dispersed. Sirrus retrieved Udina and, with a bewildered escort from captain Anderson, trekked to the front of the ballroom. Dakan and Neve were alone.

The sparks and curls of energy that licked off Neve's body set Dakan's guts fluttering. Could he talk her down? For all he knew she still despised him. If she blew him up, perhaps that would be justice, but she couldn't destroy him without destroying herself.

"Please," Neve whispered to him. Her eyes became luminous. They turned blue, then white with the intensity of her gaze. "I can't hold all this back much longer."

"I think you can," Dakan said, relieved that his sub-vocals didn't quaver. He wasn't at all sure Neve wouldn't incinerate them both, but she didn't need to hear that. What she needed was his belief in her. "I'm coming over to you."

"Don't," Neve hollered, halting Dakan in the midst of his first step. "I don't want to kill you."

"You won't." Dakan planted his foot in front of him and edged closer to the dancer.

Air surrounding Neve shimmered. Dark energy leaked from her pores. It radiated from her skin in waves that distorted the space around her. As Dakan ventured nearer, the kinetic field encapsulating her hammered at his plates. He pushed through the field as through he fought against gale force winds.

"Dakan!"

"We're fine, Neve. You've got it. I'm almost there. Just—"

A burst of blue-white light blinded Dakan. The shockwave hit him. Being caught in the blast was like getting body slammed and sucker punched by a krogan. The blow knocked the wind from him. He skidded back several yards, blocked his face with his arms. At the moment his legs were about to give out, the biotic fount cut out. The abrupt loss of force made Dakan wobbly. He dropped to his hands and knees and caught his breath while the energy he thought had dissipated swirled around himself and Neve in a brilliant tornado. Neve hadn't released or withdrawn her biotics. She'd redirected them.

Light twisted about the pair in a column that nearly brushed the ceiling. The biotic pipe was a charged cage and Neve stood at its center. Arms crossed over her chest, she bent at the middle, doubled over by the energy pouring out of her. She fueled the whirlwind that whipped her hair about her face like a mass of writhing cilia. The power encasing them didn't mean they were in the clear yet. All this energy had to go somewhere.

"Run," Neve screamed. The gust her kinetic display stirred snatched the word from her mouth.

On his feet again, Dakan did a three-sixty, then faced the dancer. "I can't."

As far as Dakan could tell, Neve's biotic whirlwind was impenetrable. They were trapped. Dakan dusted off his trousers.

"If this is the end, we're stuck together."

In the eye of this kinetic storm, there was no emission resistance as there had been when Neve tried to contain all this force. Though gusts of wind whipped his trousers and tunic, Dakan approached Neve easily. Fear left him. If these were his last moments, there were a few things he wanted her to know.

At this range, Neve's incredible charge sent twists of electricity squiggling over Dakan's exposed plates. Hair lashed his face and his clothes, tangled about his shoulders as he drew near.

"How many people will I kill?" Neve asked, head lowered.

"If we can't neutralize these biotics casualties will be minimal. C-Sec's evacuated the ballroom and Sirrus would have placed an order to extend the evac to the entire block. But this isn't over yet."

Neve's head went back and forth. "You don't believe that. You can't—"

Clasping the dancer's shoulders, Dakan said, "Neve, listen to me…"

Apologize. That's what Dakan meant to do. There weren't enough "sorrys" in the universe to mend the wounds he'd dealt her, but if she heard it enough perhaps she'd believe his sincerity. If a biotic overload snuffed their existences in the next seconds, Neve should know he cared. Encouragement would follow the apology. Neve didn't believe she could save them. She was likely correct. Reality didn't comfort Dakan, but he wouldn't let Neve leave this world without hope even if he had none.

All those kindnesses and platitudes got flushed out the airlock when he touched her.

Under Dakan's fingers, Neve's body sang with the ebb and flow of energy. The power had its own rhythm, its own music. Music was a dancer's tool. Neve should be able to control the rhythm inside her.

"Neve." Dakan squeezed her shoulders. "Don't you feel that?"

The dancer raised her head. The tears tracking her cheeks were bright as her luminous eyes.

"Wha-what? I don't…I can't feel anything. There's too much—"

"Energy. Yes. That's what I mean. Can't you feel the melody it's making inside you?"

Neve seemed to consider his statement, then her head slashed left and right. "I can't go into it like that. The biotics are too powerful. If I lose myself to them, I lose control."

"You can work with the rhythm. Use it."

"But I can't find it!"

The tender underside of Dakan's head fringe tingled. His heart rate spiked. This was hope. Real hope and not some empty platitude.

_Think, Dakan, think. How can you make her understand?_

Maybe this way.

Dakan's hands slid from Neve's shoulders to her biceps. He tapped his talons against her bare skin. The gentle strikes produced little showers of sparks. He played the rhythm on her arms like he picked out a clumsy tune on a dyano.

"There," he said. "It's like that. Can you feel it?"

Neve's lips parted. She squinted. "There's discordance."

Music and dancing weren't big contributors to Dakan's skill set. His playing on Neve's arms couldn't match the tempo of the energy strains winding through her. Talons tripped over themselves as he strove to keep the beat. Soon, his fingers moved faster than he could think. He anticipated the thrum and pulse of Neve's biotics and he translated them on her skin.

"Oh," Neve murmured and began to sway.

At first, the dancer moved only from the waist up, her body undulating with the flow of kinetics. As she gained confidence, she gave more of herself over to the power she tried to dominate. Her feet tapped the marble and her hips swiveled. Dakan couldn't hold her any longer. He restricted her movements, so he released her. Neve's eyes popped open and the biotic whirlwind screamed about them.

"Don't." She gripped his forearms. "I can't find the beat without you."

"Neve, I'm dead weight. You can do this without me."

"I need you keeping time. Dance with me." Her arms snaked around his neck. Her touch sent tiny electrical zings through him.

Dakan's chin dropped. "I've got two left feet."

"You handle the beat," Neve said. "I'll take care of the rest."

Circling his arms around Neve's waist, Dakan continued his playing at the small of her back. The delicate lace making up her gown snagged on his talons. His fumbling didn't distract her. Neve's movements were fluid, graceful. She guided Dakan with her body and he followed her lead easily.

The wind that tore at their clothes died down. The biotic tornado enclosing them unwound. It happened at Neve's command. The dancer arched back in Dakan's arms while she spread hers wide and turned up her palms. She called her loosed power back to herself.

The kinetic dervish spiraled apart and opened like a flower. Ribbons of energy rotated around them. Neve spun against the current of her biotics and Dakan turned with her. Each revolution they performed reeled in more energy. It gathered at Neve's upturned palms. Her body absorbed it. She vibrated in his grasp, her temperature and radiance increased. Neon silhouettes of the dancer's form burned on the backs of his lids when he blinked. Her fragile body wouldn't endure the strain for more than another minute.

Then Dakan's feet left the floor.

He gasped and clutched Neve harder. A biotic swell buoyed them upward. Their rise was gentle, controlled, and Dakan finally realized Neve was the catalyst. As she gathered the turbulent energy, she must have processed it, mastered it with her mind and body, and now she released it harmlessly. The wave they rode blanketed the ballroom floor with a wash of benign emissions. Kinetics traveled over the marble and dissipated when they coursed too far from their source. The more energy Neve released this way, the cooler she became. Her radiance faded and her jittering ceased as they sank to the ground. When their feet touched the floor she collapsed. Dakan bore her weight and brought her with him when he settled on his knees.

Raking Neve's hair out of her face, Dakan exposed her neck. He touched his fingers there and found a pulse, faint but steady. Neve's eyes fluttered open. Their incandescence had vanished. They were gray again.

"It's gone," she said between breaths. "I let it go."

Dakan cradled the back of her head and touched his forehead to hers. "Told you you had it under control."

The dancer uttered a weak laugh and slumped against his chest. "Guess you were right." She clung to him suddenly, digging her fingers into his arms. "Are they going to take me away now?"

Dakan combed his talons through Neve's tangled hair, letting their tips lightly brush her scalp. "No, Neve. I've got you. I've got you."

The dancer sighed and closed her eyes. A hint of a smile curved her mouth. The chat-bid nestled in Dakan's ear let out a burst of static which made his heart lurch.

"Detective." Sirrus' voice cut through the white noise. "Detective, report. What's your status? I repeat: what is your status?"

Dakan angled his head toward his collar. "Squad leader, this is detective Tallen. Location contained. Chameleon operative is secure."

* * *

Black specked white above him.

Dark seams separate the space in a square patterned grid. A ceiling.

The chatter and bleep of machinery surrounds him. The light is dim here. A subtle weight covers his body which slowly comes alive as his mind rouses itself. He groans. He's sore, so sore, but there's something he must do. Something he wants. He tries to move just his arm and hisses at a small but intense pain. Grunting, he turns his head to the side.

Catheters trail from his arm. They attach to needles that penetrate his tough hide.

The memory slices into his mind like a heated scalpel. His brain is flayed. Images gush from the wound.

_Flowery perfume and sweet leaf smoke makes my head pound._

_ I lunge for my prey. I tire of her and her control over me._

_ I tire of my very existence._

_ The woman fights but I have her. She is weak. She is—_

_ The sting of a hawpet wasp at my neck. Burning spreads._

_ Incapacitates._

_ My prey looms over me, dangles my prize above my face. Glossed lips move. My prey speaks._

_ "Did you really think I didn't know?"_

Burning air floods Vlair's lungs as he gulps deep breaths. He hinges up on the uncomfortable cot he's splayed upon and immediately falls back on his flat pillow. Muscles cramp in his arms and legs. His insides seize. Clawing the sheets, he rides out the convulsion. Within a minute, his pain subsides and the host of machines ticking out and charting his bio-rhythms quiets their clanging alarms. He relaxes, regulates his breath, closes his eyes, smiles.

He's alive.

The game's not over yet.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: I Put A Spell On You And Now You're Mine**

"What are you doing?"

A heavyset human female plods into Vlair's private med quarters while he yanks the network of catheters and connections out of his arms. Bloods beads and oozes from the many small wounds he inflicts upon himself. The dark fluid spatters the thin sheets bunched around his waist.

"What does it look like?" Vlair asks and persists with his gory work.

The squeak of rubber soles against tile gets louder. A shadow falls over Vlair's cot. A gloved hand smacks his, shocking him out of his concentration. He's momentarily stunned and unable to move as the woman busies herself about him.

"Are you mad? You were DOA. It took Dr. Psorin twenty minutes to resuscitate you. We all figured you were brain dead and here you are pulling out your life support!"

Vlair stares at the top of this woman's head while she reinserts the tubing and wires he's removed. He winces at the pinch of the needles. Their reapplication doesn't register with the machinery surrounding him.

"How long have I been here?" He asks, affecting a bewildered air. If the staff determined him brain damaged, his feigned confusion will alleviate any suspicions she might have regarding his behavior.

"Coming on two weeks now."

Two weeks.

Vlair swallows the curse that lumps in his throat. Kella has a two week lead on him. The asari might not be on the damn Citadel anymore. He grinds his teeth, twists the crumpled edge of his sheets. With his support connections re-established, his attendant whirls about and checks the levels of the fluids that should be pumping into his body and the machines that should be tracking his vitals. An omni-tool flares around her left arm. The active pane she analyzes contains a digital record of his status over the last twenty-four hours. Her personal tech must synch with all this heavy duty hardware. Putting on his best little-lost-drell voice, he prods the woman out of her silence.

"Where am I?"

The woman glances over her shoulder. Shaggy, red-blonde hair swishes with the turn of her head. Frowning, she swipes a hand across her forehead.

"What the hell am I thinking?" She deactivates her omni-tool and comes to his cot-side.

Med whites stretch over her large chest and cling to her wide hips. Her breasts bounce with her determined stride. A heart shaped face matches her heart shaped mouth. Every bit of her is plump and rosy and a familiar, and not unpleasant, ache intensifies below Vlair's waist. He twists his hips, crosses one leg over the other. The papery gown and thin sheets covering him don't conceal much. The woman lays a soft hand on his shoulder. Concern makes her round, brown eyes watery.

"You're at Open Arms I on Zakera ward. Do you remember anything from…before?"

Vlair's acutely aware of all that transpired prior his relocation to this free clinic. This woman doesn't need to know that. He furrows his brow and strokes his bottom lip. Her eyes track the motion of his fingers. Her tongue darts over her lips, making them shine. An ideal response.

"I think a party, maybe?"

She nods. "Yes. The gala for commander Shepard. Anything else coming back to you?"

Placing a hand on his head, Vlair says, "Lots of noise, I think. Bright lights. It's all murky. Do you know what happened to me?"

The woman draws away her hand. "I wish I did. Treating you would have been a lot easier had we known. I still can't believe you're conscious."

"Are you my doctor?"

The med-whites this woman fills out so well don't have physician patches or pins. She's likely a volunteer or a nurse. Proving his theory, she flicks the tag clipped above her right breast. A picture of her with eyes half-closed and mouth slack is next to her name: Cameron Davis.

"I'm your night cycle nurse," Cameron says.

"Can you tell me what my charts say? How I got here?"

Cameron's lips purse. She scratches the back of her neck and shoots a wary look over her shoulder. Vlair touches her left hand which dangles at her side.

"Please." He gives her hand a squeeze. "Being in the dark…I don't like it."

Cameron's expression warms. "I get that." Her fingers absently twine with his. "Your vitals were non-existent when you arrived. Most of the gala casualties got transferred to Huerta Memorial on the ring, but you had no ID, so C-Sec gave you to us. We're the closest free clinic to Citadel Security's Junction hub."

Stiffening, Vlair grips Cameron's hand a little too hard. She squeaks and slips his hold, massages her fingers. C-Sec can't know he's awake. Not until he secures his data on Kella. They'll have him warming a cell bench faster than he can blink his secondary lids. Cameron's monologue interrupts his thoughts.

"Dr. Psorin brought you back. You were in deep shock at first, then you slipped into a coma. Your symptoms and bloodwork had all the indications of a potent toxin, but we couldn't find any traces of it in your system."

Despite her emotional involvement and carelessness during the Udina initiative, Kella isn't dumb enough to put an altered drug in anyone that can be traced and studied. Not even the AY-Eternity compound can be isolated or identified two hours post injection. All a forensic team would find in a dosed chameleon operative are trace levels of red sand and Minagen X3. Whatever the asari injected him with was potent. Vlair inwardly thanks the hanar. Their toxin immunity training—hanar possess toxin glands in their tentacles and all assassin trainees are regularly exposed to strengthen their tolerance—has ensured his survival. And his revenge.

"C-Sec has been getting daily reports on your status."

Vlair comes to attention at this. Cameron goes on.

"Dr. Psorin's been trying to convince them you're a lost cause, a drain on clinic resources. Guess C-Sec knew he was wrong. They've sent over an officer everyday." Cameron tears at her bottom lip. "Something about following up with their investigations." Both hands go to the sides of her head. "What am I thinking?" Activating her omni-tool, she flicks up an active pane, starts typing.

"What are you doing?" Vlair's hands tense on his thighs.

"Alerting Dr. Psorin that you're responsive. If he wakes up to a report of a flatlined patient, he'll have my head."

"I flatlined?"

The night cycle nurse looks at him like she would an idiot. "You disconnected yourself from the support tech. Only the supervising doctor can approve a re-synch of these systems with the network."

Vlair almost laughs. "I'm legally dead right now?"

"Not legally, but data wise, yes," Cameron says and proceeds with her typing.

Hand shooting out, Vlair seizes and twists around the nurse's holo-gauntleted arm.

"Hey!" Cameron jerks against his grasp. As weak as he is, she almost breaks it. Brute strength won't serve him at present. What else can he do?

Unfocusing his gaze, Vlair strains. The backs of his eyes sting. His vision blurs with the tears he summons. The hand with which he restrains Cameron goes slack. The night cycle nurse frees herself, rubs her likely bruised forearm as she retreats to the far side of the chamber. Vlair slumps.

"Please," he begs and from the corner of his eye he watches Cameron. If that omni-tool goes off again she'll give him no choice. Incapacitating her will cost him health and energy wise, but if she connects with that doctor, it's over for him. "I need help. You're the only one I can trust." Tears plop-plop from his cheeks onto the thin blanket draped over his lap. They form wet, gray patches on the white cloth.

"You'll get help." Cameron's voice quavers. "Once Sr. Psorin gets here—"

"No, please!" Vlair contorts his upper body so he faces his nurse and wrings the sheets in his hands. "I can't—No one can know I'm alive."

Mouth agape, Cameron slides along the wall. She's searching for the exit while trying not to alarm him. She must think him mad.

"It's true," Vlair says, maintaining eye contact. He must reach her before she bolts. Thigh and arm muscles tighten. Any move she makes he'll intercept. Doing away with her quietly won't present a problem, but her cooperation serves him more than her death. "I may not remember exactly what happened to me at the gala," he lies, "but I have a pretty good idea who tried to kill me."

A hand rests atop Cameron's chest. "Murder," she whispers and swallows.

Vlair nods. "Some, ah, not so nice people will go a long way to keep my silence."

Cameron's posture eases. Casting off a bit of her reticence, she inches towards the cot. "What people?"

The I'm-in-danger routine has her hooked. Why not bring her into the game? Vlair angles his body away from her for dramatic effect and to conceal his smile.

"I've already said enough. If anything happened to you…I couldn't live with myself."

The nurse's squeaking footfalls make his gums tingle. She's ventured closer. Vlair keeps the opposite wall his focus.

"I can't help you if you're not honest with me," Cameron says.

Honesty. Good idea. Nothing makes lies more believable than mixing them with the truth. Slowly, Vlair repositions himself in Cameron's direction. He lifts his head, but doesn't meet her eye. A spray of freckles stippling the bridge of her nose transfixes him.

"Ambassador Udina," Vlair says and pauses while he brings up phlegm, makes his voice ragged. "Is he…"

"Dead? No. He's been all over the feeds." Cameron, superb source of information that she is, continues her chatter without prompting. "I think C-Sec wanted to keep things quiet about the security breach, but the ambassador's really pounding the war drum, using himself to put political pressure on C-Sec and the Council. He's demanding more humans in C-Sec and more eyes on chemical imports and exports, the drug market." She flaps her hand. "All that." Then her mouth, which has recently fascinated Vlair, opens wide and she covers it, whispers through her gloved fingers. "Are you saying you're involved with the Udina drama?"

Drama. An odd descriptor for an assassination attempt, but Vlair goes with it.

"Not directly. I know the people involved. I've worked for them in the past."

"Worked how?"

Vlair doesn't bother disguising his amusement. "Not how you're thinking."

"Do you know the pretty woman they've been showing on the feeds?"

Vlair's heart gives a loud thump. "Neve's alive?"

"Oh, my God!" Cameron pounces on the side of his cot, fists her hands in the bedclothes. "You _do_ know them. Yeah, the lady assassin's alive. Someone captured footage of a turian officer carrying her from the hotel and posted it to the extranet. She was a club dancer or something. A few people who were at the gala commented on the vid until their sig IDs got blocked. ANN picked up the footage and shotted the comments before C-Sec did a white out on the escaped data. It's still big news in human extranet cliques." Leaning closer to him, Cameron asks, "So, are you like, a C-Sec informant?" She licks her lips, hungry for his response. A hundred better ways she could use her tongue flit through Vlair's thoughts.

"Not as of yet," he says. "But I hope to be."

The hospital cot jounces when Cameron pushes herself off it. She paces at Vlair's bedside.

"Then we'll contact C-Sec first and they can _secure_ you or whatever it is they call it. Dr. Psorin can't fire me over that, I don't think."

_For fuck's sake._

Vlair closes his eyes and clenches his jaw. Steering this woman tests his patience. This espionage fantasy he's spoonfed her has obviously gone down well, but C-Sec go-fer isn't the role she should play.

"C-Sec can't know. Not yet."

"Why not?" Cameron asks, obviously irritated at her plan being put out of its misery.

"The…organization I worked for has agents within C-Sec. If the wrong officer gets to me first, it's over. For both of us."

"Shit."

Vlair nods.

"It really is some ginormous conspiracy, isn't it?"

Again, Vlair nods.

"I don't know what I can do to help."

And now she's right where she should be.

"Keep me dead," Vlair says.

Cameron's face blanks. She starts shaking her head.

"Listen to me." Vlair grips the edge of his mattress, leans towards her. "Your life is in danger as long as I'm alive. I know too much and anyone who's had contact with me will be regarded as a loose end."

The nurse's pink cheeks whiten. Her eyes get big while her mouth puckers.

"If I'm dead, you're safe."

"But you're not dead and I'm not a killer." Cameron sneaks a peek at her feet and toys with her fingers. "Well, not IRL, anyway."

A coughing fit shakes Vlair when he chuckles. The violent tremors make his insides ache. Breathing is painful. He thumps his chest with his fist. A gentle hand covers his own while another cups the back of his neck. Cameron eases him onto the cot.

"Fuck approval," she says. "Once I get your support system back online you'll have access to your painkillers."

"Wait." Vlair grabs Cameron's wrist. "Re-synching them will log my vitals. There's something I need you to do before activation."

"What?" Cameron's right brow hooks up.

"I need you to bring me a few items from the pharmaceutical storeroom."

"I can't just lift drugs out of storage. They're monitored and I'd like to keep my job."

Vlair props himself on his elbows. "A job is useless when you're dead. Are there security cams in the storeroom?"

Snorting, Cameron says, "Security cams? Are you kidding? This is a free clinic. Any tech we don't need to save lives we don't get. The supervising nurse on the unit keeps a tally of commonly skimmed drugs."

"Nothing we need will be missed."

A few relatively benign chemicals introduced in a drell's system induces a deep paralysis. Vital signs seemingly shut down. Without performing a specific test for the condition, no one would know Vlair still lived. And why would a xeno-internalist at a free clinic order a costly test on a brain dead, resource draining drell with no res-ID when they could simply declare him deceased? A crease forms in the middle of Cameron's brows.

"You want to fake your death. If you do that you'll get transported to a temporary stasis center for post mortem dissection, you know."

"The death paralysis will have lifted by then. I can get myself out of a stasis ampoule." Vlair groans at the memory. The last time he did this on Illium he didn't wake up until the stasis ampoule got through half of its chill protocols. He shivers, recalling how his numb hands and feet had gone a shade of green so dark he thought they'd turned black. Even now when he gets too cold his extremities twinge.

"There's an awful lot that could go wrong with this plan," Cameron says. "What if Dr. Psorin figures out you're not dead or you don't wake up before they starting cutting on you?" She nibbles at her gloved fingertips like a duct mite would a piece of metal.

"Then I pray I survive and throw myself on C-Sec's mercy. As long as an enemy agent doesn't get to me first, I should be able to bargain my knowledge for their protection."

Fear makes Cameron's dark eyes vacant. If she doesn't stop gnawing her fingers she'll bite through her glove. Snagging the rubbery material with his fingers, Vlair jerks her hand from her mouth, sandwiches it in his palms.

"I'll keep your involvement a secret."

Cameron squeezes his bottom hand. "And if this works? What then?"

"Then I will meet you on Zakera point. Wait for me there."

"Wouldn't it be bad if someone saw us together?"

"Only if that someone recognizes me. I have ways around that and we'll need each other."

"We will?" A strange, hopeful smile quirks one corner of Cameron's mouth.

"I'll need a place to hide for a few days," he takes her other hand, massages each of her fingers. No rings. No husband. Judging by her response to him, her gentling and receptive attitude to his touch and proximity, she has no one in her life she finds particularly meaningful. No rival stands in his way. He can set up a safe place for a while where he'll have time to figure out how to retrieve the information Kella stole from him. Without it, his grounds for negotiation with Citadel Security aren't as solid. "And you'll need my protection until I get our situation settled with C-Sec."

Blood colors Cameron's cheeks. Her lips redden, pupils dilate. The thought of time alone with him obviously pleases her. Vlair will make her assistance worth her while. Should she agree.

"This is insane," Cameron mutters, then nods. "Al-alright. I'll do it. I'll help you."

Softening his features, Vlair gives her his best vulnerable impression. "Thank you." He slides his hands up her arms. "I knew you wouldn't abandon me." He rests his head between her breasts.

Why did these women make it so easy?


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: She Blinded Me With Science**

I'm not locked up in a holding cell. Not yet.

In Dakan's arms my consciousness fades in and out. We're in the ballroom with the scent of sweat, blood, and o-zone, then the avenue, surrounded by the shouts of the surviving crowd, the whimpers of the injured. Circulated, scrubbed air is a welcome refreshment, then it's gone. The hum of a skycar drones around us. Cool leather gives under my heavy, heavy body. Blue and white lights flash at the windows. I blink at them and pass out. There's pressure at my arm. Someone shakes me awake. The hand gripping my bicep is hard. It has claws. I holler because monsters have claws and I think a monster has me until Dakan's face swims into view.

The turian's jaws open and shut like a ventriloquist dummy's wooden mouth. His mandibles flap. What he says escapes me. I'm too involved with the landscape of his features to pay attention. Placing my hands on the sides of his face, I trace the amber colony markings stamped on his cheek plates with my thumbs. His carapace is warm and rough with the dings and scrapes life has dealt him. He twitches at my touch, but doesn't pull away. Hands circle my wrists. I touch my forehead to his. No one's taken me away yet, just like he promised.

_This won't last_, a small, insidious voice inside me whispers. _He can't shield you from C-Sec. Remember, you can't trust him._

Dark thoughts gather at the edges of my mind. The corners of my mouth turn down. There's something I should remember about Dakan. I don't want to think about bad things now. For a few minutes, I don't want to worry, I just want to be.

The rear vents in the skycar's roof blast cold air on my back. I shiver. The tattered gown plastered to my body doesn't offer much insulation. Teeth chattering, I curl against the warm, solid body next to me. I cast my arm over Dakan's chest and scrunch my fingers into the tailored material of his dress tunic. The great biotic well inside me is depleted. I feel it like stale hunger. Energy flows all around me in invisible currents. I can draw in power if I try. Clutching Dakan tighter, I bury my face in his side. The drug hasn't let me go yet.

The steady intake and release of the turian's breath makes my lids droop. The skycar cabin fades from sight. When I next crack open my eyes, we are in my apartment. Dream fog hazes our whereabouts. I can't shake off the lingering sleepiness. I try sitting up. The drug weights my body. My head tips back first, the rest of me follows. While my mattress cushions most of my fall, I crack the back of my skull on Dakan's carapace. A disagreeable sound comes from me. My voice is distant and muffled like I've heard someone cry out in the apartment next to mine. Arms come around me, attempt to prop me up. The blunt, broad sides of a couple of talons stroke where I've injured myself. Tenderness isn't what I want.

Lurching over, I tear at Dakan's clothes—why he's fully dressed in bed is a mystery—and crawl halfway atop him before my drug addled equilibrium starts pulling me back to the mattress. Dakan grabs my hips, steadies me. He's speaking. With my mouth against his, I silence him. No more talking. There's an emptiness in me that needs filling. If Dakan's in my bed he can do that. I remember his head between my legs, the way he made my body sing. How he filled me utterly when he thrust inside. The way he made me cry out when I came. How rage burned me from the inside out when Chellik strapped me to a chair and showed me a vid, the truth, about the turian in which I'd placed my trust.

My eyes snap open. For real. We're not in my apartment, but I am straddled on top of Dakan in the back of a C-Sec skycar and I can't ignore that little voice at the back of my brain reminding me why this turian should remain at arm's length. When the anger and adrenaline hit, I don't see red. I see pink.

The charge dances over my skin. I shake off the full body tingles induced by the small bit of energy I involuntarily draw to myself. When I strike Dakan's chest, trying to get myself off him, blue-violet circles radiate from my palms like shimmering ripples over a still lake. The light concussive force isn't enough to injure either of us, but I reel as that awful incandescence sheaths my arms. I'm huddled against the far side of the skycar's cabin with my sparking appendages pinned by my thighs and Dakan cooing at me when the vehicle's hatch opens.

Shadowy figures crowd the space outside the C-Sec skycar. Dakan scooches out of the cabin. Holding up his hands, he shouts warnings to the alien bodies that shove passed him. The detective is ignored. A salarian in med whites crawls into my upholstered cave. He grabs at my legs which I kick at him, clipping his fingers. I don't want anyone near me, not even with this iota of power I've absorbed. Bit by bit, the well within me fills. When it overtops, no one near me will be safe. With a hiss and a growl and a shake of his hand, the salarian lunges at me again. I throw myself against the cabin wall and swing one of my arms at him.

That's a mistake.

A biotic shot sweeps off my forearm. The salarian takes the minor blow in the face and chest. Grunting, he tumbles off the skycar's back seat and lands in a jumble of arms and legs in the trough partitioning the front and rear of the vehicle.

"Out of my way." Another salarian, this one in a tattered and grime stained tuxedo, jockies for position with Dakan and a pair of asari med techs. As he moves, he sinks an object into the slender barrel of a delicate bodied rifle.

Before I let out a squeak, the second salarian aims his weapon at me and fires. The shot, which gets me in the hip, jerks my lower body to the left. Burning spreads up my torso and down my leg. I claw at my flank. My arm's so heavy I can barely lift it, can barely keep my eyes open either. A cool something protruding from my hip brushes my fingers. Taking a firm grip on the object, I grit my teeth and yank it from my side.

A dart.

I fling it aside and sink onto the skycar's back seat, unable to support myself any longer. I don't black out, but everything around me gets slow. I open my mouth and only strange noises come out. The salarian who shot me wings away from the cabin's entrance. One of the asari helps the battered salarian med tech from the skycar. Glancing over her shoulder, she calls to the other asari outside.

"We need biotic dampeners."

The devices are cuffed to my wrists, ankles, and neck. I can't fight the many hands working on me. I'm lifted from the skycar, strapped to a mobile gurney, and wheeled into a gleaming medical facility. Dakan calls after me, but I don't see him again.

* * *

"Tell me what you see. There are no wrong answers."

A human psychiatrist—male, dark hair, thick beard and moustache—holds a black splotched card before my face. We sit on opposite sides of a steel table in uncomfortable metal chairs. Shifting on my achy butt, I roll my eyes and finger the dampener weighting my left wrist.

_Why haven't they removed these?_ I wonder. _Detox was ages ago._

Drugged as I was, on Dalessia's concoction and the tranquilizer the salarian shot into me, when I was admitted into Huerta Memorial, I remember everything that happened. First, the staff put me through an intense detox regimen. All the toxins got flushed from my system while a network of support tech kept the shock to my body low. Two days of bedrest followed. I slept most of it away. Migraines and stiff joints plagued my waking moments. I asked everyone I saw to remove the dampeners. No one had. Didn't they know I wasn't a biotic? No more red sand meant no more superpowers.

Despite my enemy-number-one status to most of the Citadel's residents, I wasn't tethered to my cot. I was locked in my room and when that salarian, the one who tranqued me, stopped by for his first visit, he had me re-synched to C-Sec's monitoring network. In a standard C-Sec hardsuit on this occasion, the salarian—I learned his name was Sirrus—had the human technician who'd assisted Chellik during my interrogation insert a transmitter into my arm. C-Sec knew my position at all times, officer Sirrus informed me and he let me know he'd be back for detailed questioning after my doctors advised I was stable enough for the process.

I'd felt stable several days after the detox, but officer Sirrus had never returned. No one visited my room except the staff. I left my room only for whatever new pokes and prods my doctors had in store for me or for the endless rounds of mind-numbing psychiatric evaluations.

"Ms. Cezetti?" The shrink in front of me taps his splotched card with one thin finger. A silver ring bands the digit in the middle of his first and second knuckle. Similar adornments glimmer on all his fingers. They're distracting.

"Looks like a frame up to me," I mutter, uninterested in these tired techniques designed to probe my thoughts.

"Are you referring to the attempt you made on ambassador Udina's life?"

"Me?" I lay a hand on my chest. "I didn't so anything." I swivel in my chair and face the mini hover cam recording our session. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you people that! I was drugged. I had no control over my body."

"You seemed in control when C-Sec cornered you."

C-Sec must have made footage of the incident available to my treatment team. ANN certainly hasn't gone public with any material like that and they would if they had it.

"Yeah, well," I fiddle with the dampener at my neck. "That took a lot of effort. Are you even allowed to ask me about this stuff?"

The door to the small interviewing room bangs open. Officer Sirrus strides on in. The asari doctor in charge of my treatment shadows him.

"No, he's not," officer Sirrus says.

"And you're not supposed to intrude here, officer." My doctor, an asari with blue-sky skin and white pigment marks covering her face and scalp crest like tiger stripes, trots ahead of the salarian and blocks his path, spreading her arms. "Not without my written consent. In triplicate."

Officer Sirrus stares down the asari, his almond shaped, black eyes slitted. "This woman belongs in C-Sec's custody. She's been here nearly two weeks. You're impeding an ongoing investigation, not to mention risking her safety with the current political climate being what it is."

He means Udina. I'm not totally cut off from the outside world while I'm confined to Huerta Memorial. There's a vid screen in my single occupancy room and the ambassador is on the feeds everyday condemning me, drug trade on the Citadel, and C-Sec's supposed human hostile policies.

"If there were more humans in Citadel Security," Udina had blustered this morning. "You can be sure what happened to me never would have occurred."

The ambassador's interviews and press conferences play along with any footage of me ANN gets its hands on. My butt, from the stills and vids captured after the Shadow Matter riot, features prominently as does my brief interview with Emily Wong on _Citadel Space_. Dakan's skin vid hasn't made its debut yet, so Chellik's keeping that under wraps. I'd like to think it's because he's a decent turian of his word, but I can't imagine the shit storm that would rain down on C-Sec if a carnal link got established between me and one of their own.

Besides the "official" ANN broadcasts, dozens of private channels extrapolate on different conspiracy theories involving me and the Terra Firma Party—which didn't make sense until I found out the Terra Firmas dislike Udina because he's not aggressive enough in his dealings with the Council— and me and Eclipse and even me and Saren. One of the nut job private channel hosts ran a segment proving I'm a new geth model engineered to infiltrate galactic society. I groan and rest my head on the cold metal table, sick to death of people arguing over or about me.

"Current political climes aside," the asari doctor shoots back at officer Sirrus. "I can't release her in good faith at this point in her treatment. Not with the anomalies present in her system."

_Anomalies?_ I perk up at that, ears twitching.

"Anomalies?" Officer Sirrus asks and I nod along with the inquiry.

The asari glances at me over her shoulder. It's clear she doesn't want to discuss whatever's wrong with me in front of me. I'm out of my chair so fast, I knock it over with a resounding clang and bump the table, bruising my hip.

"What's wrong with me?" I ask the doctor who holds up her hands in a placating manner and puts on that babying-calm voice professionals use with unstable people.

"It's not that anything's wrong with you, but there have been interesting…developments with your system over the last couple of weeks."

"Developments?" I probe.

Officer Sirrus interjects. "You mean mutations."

To my horror, my doctor's head dips in affirmation. "Precisely."

"Mutations?!" I claw at the sides of my face. Twisting my head around, I spin like a puppy chasing its tail, trying to get a view of my back, certain there's an extra arm or tit growing where I can't see.

"It's nothing so horrible as you're imagining," my doctor assures me, then signals the be-ringed psychiatrist still seated at the table. "Would you excuse us, doctor?"

"Of course." The dark haired man collects his ink blotted cards, stows them in a leather messenger strapped over his chest, and exits the interview room.

Taking me by the arm, the asari guides me back to the table and suggests I sit. Once I turn my chair upright, I do. She offers the other seat first to officer Sirrus. When he declines, she occupies it herself. The hardsuited salarian stands to the side, arms folded. The asari taps a finger on the table while she orders her thoughts, then shrugs and speaks.

"You know the affects of red sand and Minagen X3?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second," I answer, treating her not at all like a patient or prisoner and more like a colleague.

"Minagen X3 boosts biotic power temporarily. It's also extremely toxic. When red sand and the boosting agent are combined we see abilities like the kind you displayed at the gala."

I cringe. Does she think I'm guilty? I've been yammering at anyone who'll listen about Dalessia and Vlair and the drugs. All of them look at me like I'm crazy. Anxiety squeezes my chest and throat. Words, explanations, swarm in my mouth like angry insects. I want to explain my innocence to them right now. I want them to believe me. I want Dakan. That turian may have screwed me over, but he knows I'm not responsible for this. He swore he'd protect me. Not that there's much he can do for me now.

"The duration and strength of your abilities—"

"Not my abilities," I counter. "Dalessia Kella's."

The asari gives officer Sirrus a sidelong look and he almost imperceptibly shakes his head. The indulgent smile the asari shines on me pisses me off.

"The drug induced biotics were quite impressive. Astounding, actually. You've never demonstrated biotic ability before? Not ever?"

"No."

How many times do I have to rehash this? Everyone gets screened before and after puberty these days. My biotic status is a matter of public record.

"That's very interesting considering the proto-nodes we've detected." The asari's indulgent smile turns smug.

Proto-nodes. The term marinates in my brain.

"You mean like eezo nodules?" I finally ask.

"Eezo exposure has been known to stimulate biotic node development in humans. The nodes we've mapped in you are comparative to those of a human adolescent with an inborn mutation. Without an amp and intensive training, however, someone with these latent anomalies shouldn't be able to harness as much power as you can. Your nodes should be in a state of atrophy."

"But they're not." Under the table, I twist the dampener bracelets around my wrists. This is why they haven't been removed.

"No," the asari says and scientific and intellectual curiosity brightens her face. "In fact, they're growing. Getting bigger. Stronger."

I gape at her for a long while.

"You're telling me I'm a biotic," I say.

The asari doctor beams like she's pleased I've grasped her meaning because she didn't expect it. "Precisely."

What the fuck has Dalessia Kella done to me?


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38: A Guy Like You Should Wear A Warning**

"That proves it, doesn't it?" I plead with officer Sirrus who hasn't budged from his wide-legged stance near the table. Blinking at me, the salarian keeps his silence and brushes a finger across his thin lips. I implore my doctor. "These proto-nodes prove there was something more than red sand and Minagen X3 in my bloodstream, right?"

The asari appears unsure. "The rapid node development does suggest biological tampering…"

My brows go up at her affirmation, but then she ruins it all.

"…But the only documented foreign bodies in your system are red sand and Minagen X3. We've treated and studied hundreds of cases of long term exposure and use of both drugs, even cases where they were used in tandem and none of those cases manifested side effects like yours." The asari has a hungry look about her. "If we perform more tests—"

"No." Officer Sirrus breaks his silence. "No more tests. Ms. Cezetti should be remanded to C-Sec's custody."

Slapping her hands on the table, the asari rises and glares at the officer making demands of her. "Ms. Cezetti is a patient of Huerta Memorial. I will not release her when her future health is in question. We have no idea what the lasting effects of such drastic biological tampering could be. Nailing down the source of the divergence would expedite our processes." One side of the asari's forehead wrinkles like mind would if I raised one brow. "Does C-Sec have any information to contribute? Anything to corroborate Ms. Cezetti's claims that she was drugged with something other than street available chemicals?"

The reddish-gray skin in the center of officer Sirrus' brow creases for an instant then smoothes. He taps his left arm right where his omni-tool would be if he activated it.

"It is possible," he says. "Yes, it's possible."

The salarian's preoccupation hasn't escaped the asari. "Officer," she says, rising from her seat. "I don't have to explain the value of being able to create a biotic, a powerful biotic, with no inborn or inherent ability from scratch. The discovery and application of that knowledge—"

"Would make the discoverer very rich," officer Sirrus finishes. "And the species who received the practical benefits of that knowledge very powerful. Much more powerful than any other species, I would think."

The asari's eyes glitter and one side of her mouth quirks. "I'm sure all the Council races and their allies would benefit to some extent."

Officer Sirrus returns her not-smile. "I'm sure they would. In time. However, this revelation makes Ms. Cezetti's situation even more sensitive. Someone as valuable and notorious as herself should be in a well guarded holding cell."

I've got my elbows propped on the table top. Each conversational volley between these two has my eyes going back and forth. Watching them is like watching the best tennis match in the system.

"And we've come full circle, officer…?"

"Sirrus."

"I'm not prepared to release my patient. There are dozens of tests my team and I have yet to run. Until then you are more than welcome to double the security detail you already have running roughshod over this facility. I assure you Ms. Cezetti is safe in our care."

This time officer Sirrus' smile is genuine. "And I assure you, doctor, I will return for your patient with a Council order for her release. When that occurs, I guarantee that any medical advancement achieved from this woman's victimization will not be yours to reap."

The asari doctor shows the salarian all her teeth. She bends slightly at the waist and inclines her head at him.

"Good luck to you, officer." She doesn't speak again until officer Sirrus has left the room, then she takes her seat opposite me and activates her omni-tool. "Well, Ms. Cezetti, as your psych eval was interrupted, I believe we'll reschedule for later in the day."

My bottom lip pooches. I don't want another eval. Isn't fifteen enough? I can only look forward to more of this interrogation crap once C-Sec gets their paws, tentacles, and talons on me. They likely won't stop until I confess to something I didn't do. I guess this is my life now. But what about my mom? I wore Chellik's wire and Dalessia did say a couple words before they put that hyoid scrambler thing on my neck. That should have fulfilled my agreement with the senior detective, right? Maybe C-Sec will still get my mom up here and take care of her treatment. As I turn all this over in my head, I work my lips together like a granny without her teeth in. Asking my doctor for a meeting with any C-Sec representative is out of the question. The asari's absorbed with the active pane on her omni-tool. She fingers through a long string of stacked data. I can't read it backwards, but it looks like her stored contacts list.

"Will you take me back to my room, then?" I ask. I'd appreciate a little time to myself.

"I don't think so," the asari says without lifting her sightline from her pane. "If officer Sirrus is as good as his word, our time left together will be brief."

Thank God.

"I doubt he'll succeed," the asari continues, "but I won't waste what time I have left with you. Immediate results are what we need. Lots of data. Fortunately, a cerebral-spinal draw will return those results. Which is unfortunate for you."

"Why's that?"

The asari meets my eye. "It's an excruciating process."

Bloodlust isn't a state I experience often. I do now. I hold on to the edge of the table for dear life so I don't lunge across it and wrap my hands around this awful asari's neck. What I wouldn't give to be free of these biotic dampeners with what I know.

The doctor gets up and about faces. "Someone will be in shortly to retrieve and prep you for the CSD." As she heads to the door, she initiates a call from her omni-tool.

"Riveena, it's me. I need you to get me the asari ambassador's ear ASAP."

* * *

The dismal lights in the single room apartment flicker on when the front door retracts. Vlair enters after Cameron. His boot heels clomp on the uncarpeted floor. He shrugs off the satchel slung over his shoulder. Cameron, his lovely and pleasantly naïve little savior, scurries about her hovel and collects trash.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "I never have guests."

_Obviously_, Vlair thinks.

Three pieces of furniture "decorate" the room: a bed that folds out from the west wall piled with ratty coverings, a warped chest of drawers fashioned of flimsy particle board, and a sturdy looking desk sporting a top of the line, customized p-terminal. A battlement of multi-colored vid-game cases next to the desk almost reaches his chin. Vlair wanders towards the p-terminal to admire it. On his way, he stumbles over a pile of equipment he didn't notice.

"Oh, be careful!" Dropping the dump of empty take away boxes and insta-meal packets, Cameron rushes over and shoos him from the complicated build taking shape near her desk.

The noisy pile of cans Vlair backs into crunches underfoot. He wide-steps out of the aluminum hillock. The soles of his boots peel away from the floor with a tacky sound. Syrupy dregs from the emptied energy drinks coat the ground with sugary goo. Grimacing, he wipes his feet on a clear space by the wall.

"What is that thing?" Vlair asks Cameron who's crouched by her equipment and worrying over it like a mother would her infant.

The nurse doesn't answer right away and her internal debate weights the silence. She must come to some determination because she says, "It's the start of an immersive rig prototype."

"I'm not familiar," Vlair says, wrinkling his nose at the warm, stale air. The extra layers he wears adds to his discomfort, but as there's no clean space to place them, he keeps the garments on.

"When it's finished it'll be a VR device."

Ah. Vlair nods. She means virtual reality. Makes sense as a hobby with all the games and top-line tech she owns. But…

"You're building it yourself?" Vlair asks. Though they're not the most tech efficient species, humans have their share of talented engineers and technicians. Why would this woman waste her time as an underappreciated and overworked nurse at a free clinic when she possesses a profitable skill?

"Not without a lot of help," Cameron says. She knee walks over to the mound of garbage she dropped and starts gathering it. "I corresponded for a while with a salarian on an extranet tinkerer clique. We got together IRL eventually. He works for a domestic tech development company designing better automated doors and intuitive residence interfaces and stuff. He's tutoring me. Since we're both into vid-games, a VR rig seemed like a good project."

"Sounds complex."

Luxury entertainment complexes and specialty arcades have their share of public VR arenas and booths. Vlair knows enough about gaming to know the three-hundred-and-sixty degree reality simulators are accessible to the public for steep hourly fees. Private ownership of the tech is rare. The appeal of a real-time fantasy world, and vid-gaming in general, eludes Vlair. No achievement or experience in a facsimile universe would ever be, well, real. Touch and taste and smell are crudely manifested in simulated environments. With entire galaxies a mass relay away, why dawdle in an imaginary realm?

"Your salarian friend actually comes over here?"

"Not often," Cameron admits and fingers the partially constructed prototype. "His job keeps him busy. We vid-chat a lot."

"The state of this place doesn't bother him? Salarians are a fastidious bunch."

A vivid flush creeps up Cameron's neck and colors her face. Rosy splotches brighten her cheeks and her throat convulses as she swallows. Vlair's teeth click when his jaw snaps shut. The reaction surprises him. He's sorry he mentioned the disorder. That irritates him. He's never sorry about anything except missed opportunities.

"That was crass," Vlair says and that's as close to an apology as anyone will ever get out of him.

"Yeah, well." Cameron carries on with her tidying charade. "Clutter and mess doesn't bother component-chasers all that much. Our projects consume most of our living spaces. And our lives."

Going to her, Vlair joins Cameron on his knees. He helps her pick up trash. "You, ah, enjoy living this way? With your projects and vid-games?"

"Escaping is kinda my thing." Cameron finds a plastic bag among the debris and they start packing what they can inside.

"How fortuitous for me," Vlair says, working with a stubborn Styrofoam container. "I doubt I would have escaped the clinic without your assistance." That brings her smile back and Vlair is satisfied he's smoothed her rumpled feathers. It's true. Escape from the clinic would have been much more difficult without her.

The caper plays over again in his mind.

Vlair had helped Cameron administer the chemicals she'd brought him. The death paralysis had descended, had made his body heavy and cold. His heart had slowed and his eyes had closed and when his consciousness had returned, total darkness had shrouded him. The close, smooth walled confines in which he had found himself had been the dimensions of a stasis ampoule. The sealed pod had rocked. He'd felt himself raised and jostled. Muffled conversation had reached him and had cut off when he'd felt himself shoved into place and had heard the unmistakable sound of a door closing and a latch latching. The whine of mechanized parts had risen. Whoever had tended him had begun the ampoule's chill process. The ampoule's activation had worked in his favor. The very process that could end his life had also provided cover for his getaway.

All hospitals and clinics possessed a relatively similar layout. Stasis centers and dissection theaters had walls honeycombed with stasis sleeves. Once an ampoule had been sleeved, the body within could be flash frozen for future thaw and autopsy pending paperwork and approval. Or the body could be dumped into the incinerator below the facilities. Stasis sleeves connected to ducts which led downward to an incinerator and upward to air scrubbers and atmosphere recyclers. All Vlair had to do was escape his prepped ampoule and go up instead of down.

Easier said than done.

Running his fingers along the stasis ampoule's slick interior, Vlair had located the emergency control panel, had fitted his nails in the little seam outlining the removable hatch and had popped it open. The emergency controls had been designed for repair and maintenance staff who might accidentally seal themselves inside a way out. Vlair had tripped the correct switch with a flick of his thumb. The top of the ampoule had hinged open with a pneumatic hiss. An alarm had rung out, signaling a malfunction with his ampoule. Since his attendant had already activated the chill process, no one could remove his ampoule from its sleeve. Vlair had possessed ample time to flee.

Had the drell been a corpse to dispose of, his sleeve would have tipped upward and dumped his body into the incinerator duct accessible from his now opened ampoule. Instead, Vlair had squirmed out of the pod and had supported himself on the sheer duct walls, hands and feet planted on opposite sides of the metal shaft, arms and legs straining to keep him suspended in the duct. He'd inched his way to the vents above by making awkward, frog-like jumps which had propelled him upward.

At the top of the shaft, his arms and thighs had shook with exertion. Sweat had slicked his face, back, and palms, making his position even more precarious. Punching through the vent grate, he'd pulled himself into the scrubbing chamber. Flat on his back under the atmosphere recyclers, he'd lay for a spell, breathing in and out, letting his heart rate slow and his muscles rest. The paper gown he'd torn from his body had fluttered down the incinerator duct like an unneeded skin.

Without a helpful duct rat to guide him this time, Vlair had navigated the clinic's vent system blindly. At each vent grate, he'd paused, had peered into the halls he'd scuttled above. He'd read signage posted on the walls and had eavesdropped on conversations the staff had shared. Using this information to mark his location, he'd sussed out the route to the small storage closet Cameron had told him about.

With his thumbnail, Vlair had removed the tiny screws from the storeroom's ceiling vent grate and had slid the slatted plate carefully away. Arms stretching, he'd lowered himself into the room, bare feet slapping the floor. A dizzy spell had come over him, another aftereffect of the death paralysis. Lightheadedness had passed in a moment. Hugging himself with one arm, Vlair had pawed through the rack of lab coats and med whites. Near the wall, he'd uncovered his clothes bundled around his Razer VII and his omni-tool. He'd dressed, had stowed his pistol and omni-tool in his outerskin jacket. In the end, he hadn't donned any of the available coats or med whites. Drell weren't common on the Citadel and Vlair had believed even an overworked staff on a free clinic would know if a drell walked their ranks. Disguising himself as staff would call more attention to himself, so Vlair had simply exited the storage closet and insinuated himself with the hustle and bustle of the clinic.

In the neon markets he'd threaded quickly through the crowd. A personal storage site nestled in with the high rise malls, casinos, arcades, and be-seen restaurants had been his destination. There, he'd plundered a small locker he'd maintained under an alias. He'd taken his identity kit and the documents that went along with it as well as a stash of credit chits. Until he'd changed his identity, using his omni-tool or accessing his accounts could give him away. Funding his transactions with chits would keep 'Vlair Upshad' off the records.

Inside one of the multi-story shopping arcades, he'd purchased a hooded turian tunic and had worn it hood up when he'd finally met Cameron at the point. Turning at the hand he'd placed on her shoulder, she'd smiled at him as though they'd met for a date.

"I still don't know that I did the right thing," the nurse Vlair ponders says. They've stuffed their trash bag to capacity. Cameron stares into it, the looping handles dangling from her crooked fingers. "In vid-games I do bad stuff all the time and it's fun, but they're aren't any consequences besides my ranking on a leaderboard."

Guilt isn't a good emotion for this moment. Guilt prompts people to do silly things. Like confess their recent crimes. Lust is much better. Lust also makes people do silly things to each other, most of them agreeable.

Vlair reaches out and tucks a bit of red-blonde hair behind Cameron's ear. He lets his fingertips brush her cheek. She takes a sharp breath in at the contact.

"You saved me from some very dangerous people and I'm going to make sure those people can't harm anyone else ever again."

_And if I don't kill Dalessia Kella_, Vlair thinks. _I'll make her wish she'd never passed between her mother's legs._

"And what about you?" Cameron asks, her big brown eyes staring at him.

"What about me?"

"Who's going to stop you from doing bad things?"

"You think I'm bad?"

An incredulous look shapes Cameron's features. Stretching out her hand—the contents of the trash bag almost spill when she releases one handle—she pushes the hood Vlair wears back. She traces the edge of the fabric and slips her hand inside the garment, inside his outerskin jacket beneath. Her hand comes to rest on the butt of his Razer VII. She looks up at him through her lashes.

"I know you're bad."

"Then why have you brought me home with you?"

The question, Vlair thought, would take her aback. Cameron would retreat and he would pursue, the way he always plays the game. But Cameron isn't abashed by the inquiry and shows him exactly why she brought him home with her.

Curling her fingers around his shoulder holster, she tugs him to herself, strains upward, and places a tentative kiss at the corner of his mouth.

"This is what I want," the tender gesture tells him. "Will you give it to me?"

Vlair does. He angles his face so their kiss becomes less question and more promise. With his mouth he shows her what he'll do elsewhere. They grow heated, intense. The trash bag drops from her hand. He clasps the back of her head, laces his fingers in her hair, tugs. Fingers bracelet his wrists. She moans against his lips. Panic tinges the excited sound. She shoves away from him though his arms remain twined about her neck.

"Something's wrong." Cameron touches her kiss-plumped lips, purses them.

"What is it?" Vlair asks, suppressing his irritation at this interlude. The bed is right. Over. There.

"My mouth is all tingly." A pink tongue darts over her lips. "I taste—"

"Venom," Vlair says and Cameron blanches.

"You poisoned me?"

"Only a little. It's skin venom. Drell excrete trace amounts all the time. Not enough to kill or make you sick unless we really tried. And you would be able to tell long before you ingested a lethal amount if I did."

"Oh, my gosh."

Vlair clears his throat. "Does it hurt?"

After she compresses her lips, Cameron says, "No, actually. It feels strange, but good. Really good." She glances at the floor. "Will it feel like that all over the place?"

While she speaks, Vlair bends to the junction of her neck and shoulder. He kisses her there, takes her skin gently between his teeth so she gasps. Then he rises and gives her earlobe a similar treatment and whispers, "Yes," but she doesn't need any more coaxing.

Arms wrap around his neck. Cameron finds his mouth again. She's so soft. Her lips, her cheeks which he cradles, the tongue in his mouth which tastes him, the body that demands the pleasure he can't help but offer. And take.

Vlair's hands glide from Cameron's face to her chest. He palms her breasts which are large and heavy and feeling them through her blasted med whites isn't enough. Reading her back like Braille, he finds the metal seam holding the garment to her body. He follows the metallic trail to the top of her collar. The tab he pinches and pulls is cold against his skin. The zipper's teeth part with a high _biziip_ and the tunic top of Cameron's uniform comes apart. He peels it off her, sliding her arms from the gloved sleeves and baring her to the waist. A white bra without adornment or frill cups her breasts. He does away with it and then he can see and touch.

Large, pink nipples color the centers of Cameron's breasts. Vlair kneads her chest, captures her pearled tips with his fingers and gently pulls. Nails dig into his shoulders and when Cameron moans again, the sound is pure pleasure. One of her hands leaves his shoulder and travels to his groin. She palms his already stiff cock and a rush of excitement, and blood, makes his length strain under her hand. That she doesn't require careful seduction puts him at ease. He relishes his body's response to her curious play without thought to his next move. The experience is novel and disarms him and makes him too eager.

Plunging his hands into the front of her bunched top, he yanks the jumper portion of her med whites further down her hips to her knees. Trousers clasp just under her navel. He fiddles with the button and starts stripping her bottom. Again, she tears away from him, her mouth red and shining with his attention and her pupils so large they almost eclipse her irises.

"No," she says. "I want to undress you first."

With a gusty laugh, Vlair acquiesces and allows himself to be led to her bed; a bunk-like affair that hinges down platform-style from her wall. She kicks away her jumper as they go and stands him before her cot. Nibbling at one of her fingers, she ogles him as though she can't decide where to start.

The jacket goes first. Cameron casts it to the side then sets in on his holster which she disentangles from his arms. The pistol jostles in her hands. She tests its weight.

"You like that?" Vlair asks, jolting her out of her thoughts. Her attention should be on him. Only on him.

"Never shot a real one." Cameron places the Razer VII gently atop his jacket and returns to him. "I wonder if I'd be any good what with all the first person shooters I play."

In a few minutes, she's deciphered the rest of his outerskin suit. Vlair is shucked out of his clothing. Air swirls about him like a whisper of silk. On her knees in front of him, Cameron tugs off his trousers and shoes. He lifts each foot to accommodate her. After she finishes, she gazes up at him, or rather, at what stands at attention between his legs. A devious smile curves her mouth. Palms skate up his thighs as she rises. The light sensation makes his muscles jump. Hands on either side of his cock, she gives him a little shove and he sits on the edge of her bed how she wants him to. He taps his feet in anticipation because even though he slumbered through most of it, it's still been two goddamned weeks.

It takes every ounce of Vlair's self control not to thrust up his hips when Cameron hovers over him. She gauges his size and girth and then her hand circles the base of his shaft and his breath stutters. Parted lips touch the sensitive underside of Vlair's head. The tip of Cameron's tongue flicks at him and he fists his hands in her sheets before she takes all of him into her mouth.

Wet heat sheaths the entirety of his shaft. Vlair groans and it's only the wall at his back that keeps him upright. She massages his prick with her mouth and lips, laves him with her tongue, teases him with its dexterous tip. She comes up quick to the head of his cock which she suckles then slides down to his base where she lingers, her head bobbing just a little. He's so deep inside her he taps the back of her throat.

While she works him over, he stares at the top of her head. What he wants is to place his hands on her, keep her low where he likes it, but he knows some women find the habit offensive and is he tries there's a fifty-fifty chance he'll sour their liaison. He reaches for her anyhow, trails his fingers along her jaw. An appreciative sound comes from her and the vibrations from the noise draw a wicked growl from Vlair's throat. Acting on her encouragement, he snakes his fingers into her hair. Her lustful ministrations grow ravenous at the pressure and this stokes Vlair's bravery. Gathering her hair in his fists, he carefully pulls so she feels him, then encourages he downwards where he holds her in place and takes over.

Heels dug into the floor, Vlair raises his hips off the bed and pumps into Cameron's mouth. He's alert to her every sound and movement of her body. Nothing he reads there is negative, so he gives himself over to the rhythm he needs until his balls tighten and his teeth grind together.

"Fuck," he grates out and pulls his hips back to cut off his climax.

Cameron doesn't let him.

Hair slips through Vlair's fingers as she swallows him. The intense pressure, the incredible heat, drives him to his breaking point. Hips bucking, he bows off the bed, seizing with every blinding pulse of his completion. With her hands, Cameron wrangles him, pins him in place. She relaxes her mouth and stills her tongue. As he's completely over stimulated, any further attention would be painful and Vlair is grateful for her foresight. When he's quiet and motionless, she pulls up her head. Her mouth glistens with evidence of her work. She smiles at him.

"Now, you make me come."

"Oh, yes," Vlair says now that his strength is returning.

And he does.

Twice.

First with his head between her legs after he discards her clinging trousers and boots. She cries out under the deft attention of his tongue. Then the second time when she's astride him. She's a pleasurable weight at his hips. Her breasts sway with her rocking. A mist of sweat makes her skin gleam. When she arches back and utters a strangled cry, Vlair dovetails into his own second release, milder than the first, but no less euphoric. Hinging up, he buries his face in her breasts, sucks one of her nipples into his mouth. They clutch one another and pulse in time. Then they collapse side by side on the bed which is just big enough for both of them. Vlair flings an arm and a leg over Cameron and toys absently with one of her breasts.

"Still wondering if you made the right decision?" He asks. He meant it as a tease, but when she doesn't answer he persists.

"I don't know," she says. "What's your name?"

Vlair sucks in breath. He hasn't thought of a new title and doesn't want to off the cuff. Revealing his name is dangerous. Then he thinks of how he will eventually end this affair and says, "Vlair."

Giggling shakes Cameron's body. "Vlair? Oh, that's perfect. _Vlair_." She gives his name a mocking emphasis and he curls up behind her. "Well, Vlair, I think I've done the right thing of you, but likely the worst thing for all women everywhere. You're bad for us."

"Bad? Or very, very good?"

Suddenly, he must hear it from her.

"Am I good, Cameron? Tell me." He squeezes her.

She stretches and groans. "You're exceptional."

"Is that all?" He nudges her back with his forehead.

There's hesitation, then, "You're very handsome too and strong and clever since you escaped the clinic and the people after you. NOVA."

_Yes, yes, I am,_ Vlair thinks. _I am._

"Tell me again."

Cameron tells him again and laughs.

"What's funny?"

"That someone as gifted as you could be so insecure."

Wrapped around the nurse, Vlair mutters and lets his mind wander. He's not insecure. He just likes hearing how wonderful he is from everyone else. And when he has Dalessia Kella at his mercy he'll enjoy hearing his many virtues spill from her lips before he silences her forever.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39: There Goes My Hero, Watch Him As He Goes**

Highlights from last night's _Citadel Space_ played on Dakan's p-terminal. The turian's eyes glazed. He only paid half attention to the feed. A human man in an expensive suit sat across from Emily Wong. She asked a question, her sleek bob wavering with the motion of her head. He answered. A caption at the bottom of the pane read "Assassination: The Quick Road to Fame?" A still of Neve, a shot Dakan recognized from the impromptu interview Wong conducted with the dancer right after Razorback's botched attack, hovered next to the man's head. The human crossed one ankle over his knee. Silver rings flashed under the spots as the man illustrated his answer to an inquiry Dakan had missed with grand gestures.

"I've been in the unique position to have several in depth interviews with Neve Cezetti," the man said. The cams focused on him from the chest up. Another caption typed across his chest divulged his name and title: Dr. Daniel Harper. "When one first meets her it's difficult not to be distracted by her incredible beauty. In my book, _Beauty and the Brain_, I discuss humanity's demands of beauty. That it should be kind, generous, moral." He gave the audience a moment to soak in his wisdom. "When we encounter beauty that is devious, conniving, self-aware, and aggressive, the human mind naturally rebels. Therefore, my enchantment with Ms. Cezetti was short lived. Her unrepentant narcissism will always be her downfall as it so often is with many of our fame hungry species."

Elbows on her desk, Wong laced her fingers under her chin. "And you believe her hunger for success drove her to kill?" The reporter's face communicated she wasn't buying the hypothesis.

Dr. Harper nodded indulgently. "I do as I'll explain in my new book, _Neve Cezetti: The Face of Deadly Desire_, out next month with…"

Dakan flipped the channel.

_Everyone's out to make creds_, he thought and shook his head. He paused on the ANN feed, eager for non Citadel centric news.

_Humans_. His mandibles flicked at the dark skinned anchor that appeared on his active pane. _Everyone in the media nowadays is human._

During the First Contact War, humanity's tenacity, their endurance and strength in battle despite their primitive tech and overwhelming galactic ignorance had impressed the turians. Dakan hadn't seen action in that historical conflict, but he'd studied it at Vandros Military Academy. If the Council had not intervened and put and end to hostilities, Dakan had little doubt the turian fleet and their superior ground forces would have decimated the humans in a counter-strike.

Humanity's ultimate strength was not their military. It was their command of the media, how naturally they took to the cams and extranet and flourished there, dominated. Before the flood of humans into Citadel space, the asari occupied the media throne. Their race still had a chokehold on the entertainment industry, on the manufacturing, the buying and selling of eloquent content. But the asari did not use the media as humanity did.

In human hands, media outlets became effective weapons and they'd leveled those weapons at many of their enemies. Vicious campaigns, wars in their own right, had been fought without the expulsion of a single round, without the waste of a single resource, without the loss of a single life. Why obliterate an enemy when one could discredit them? Why command a species when one could command the visual record of history? Dakan shuddered. That sort of non-combat was anathema to his honorable turian sensibilities. Fights should be fought face to face and claw to claw, not from behind a screen with a well honed dagger-word to the back. Most of all, he couldn't stand watching those weapons launched at Neve, especially when he knew she was innocent. The smooth drone of the ANN anchor pulled Dakan from his reverie.

"Salarian-human relations were further strained this week when commander Shepard failed to attend an informal inquiry into the horrific events which transpired at a salarian research base on Virmire. Heavy casualties and massive damage were sustained at the base when a nuclear weapon was detonated at the site. The Alliance lost one of their own in this most recent sortie against Saren Arterius. Ashley Williams, granddaughter of General Williams, the only Alliance officer to ever surrender to an alien force on Shanxi, was killed in the battle.

"The Normandy was seen docked at the Citadel three days ago. Rumors of the commander's permanent grounding abounded, but there's been no sign of the ship or humanity's first spectre in the last seventy-two hours. Captain Kirrahe…"

The hiss and click of the automatic doors cut over the anchor's throaty baritone. Officer Sirrus entered the rear suite of offices. Dakan flew out of his seat, intercepting the officer before he came three steps into the room.

"Neve's transfer team," the detective said. "I'm requesting a position."

The officer's face was impassive. His lower lids blinked once, twice, then he glanced down to where Dakan clutched the lapels of his casual blues. Coughing, the detective released the salarian. He hadn't realized he'd laid hands on him. Officer Sirrus brushed himself off.

"And I fully intend to grant you that position, detective. Provided one condition."

"Which is?"

"Information on the drugs raided from NOVA's stockpile on Omega. You have it?"

Dakan's mandibles hugged his jaws. How long had it been since he'd checked his work inbox for anything other than status reports on Neve, Kella, and Upshad? Too long. After he'd left Neve at Huerta Memorial, he'd thrown himself into collecting any evidence that could bolster Neve's defense, conducting interviews with gala attendees, and monitoring Udina's near constant shit stirring. Samples of the confiscated drug were sent to Zenta Labs long ago for evaluation. Did he ever receive that report?

Fisting his hand, Dakan activated his omni-tool and accessed his work inbox. He scrolled through hundreds of messages he'd not yet organized and achived. Yes, there it was! A message from Zenta Labs RE: Aridi Sin Development's Altered Red Sand Analytics.

"I have the intel," Dakan said. "I'll forward it to you and to the senior detective." Dakan's talon hovered over the transmit icon when Sirrus grabbed his arm.

"No." The officer lowered his voice. "Keep senior detective Chellik out of the loop."

"Are you blasted?" Dakan's voice came out a raspy whisper.

With Dakan's citizenship level and future with C-Sec already under review, withholding information from a superior officer was just begging for unnecessary trouble. That and depriving Chellik, and the Executor by extension, of any leads stalled the NOVA investigation.

Since the discovery of his blundering with Neve, Dakan had to check all action on the NOVA/Kella case with Chellik. He'd done so by submitting daily schedules for review and sign off. Significant maneuvers, that weren't reassigned, required verbal clearance. Neve's handling had been officially transferred to Sirrus. Investigations, surveillance, and intelligence gathering, Dakan retained control over. The teams in his charge had experienced set backs.

While all gala attendees were confined to the Presidium, moving forward with high profile interviews was a challenge. Anyone with a name or title worth anything didn't want to end up on the feeds as associated with the investigation. Those with the power and contacts to do so stonewalled C-Sec. They had not approached Kella yet. The asari's suite was under twenty-four hour surveillance. Through her large lower windows, they monitored the "talent agent." Her extranet communications were tapped. Nothing she sent out smacked of an escape attempt. Clients were notified that Band Cluster business would proceed as normal. Kella conducted meetings and orchestrated shoots and events from her suite. It would seem the asari had sustained trivial losses. Save two.

Udina lived.

Vlair Upshad, Kella's drell companion, was dead.

Dakan wasn't pleased with that second loss as it was a loss for his team as well.

With Upshad in custody, C-Sec could have won the drell to their side. Persuasive offers of immunity, protection, could have secured the drell's testimony against Kella. Information only Upshad possessed could have cleared Neve's name. The disheartening news had come four days ago. Upshad had flat-lined at Zakera's Open Arms I. He'd been put in stasis for an autopsy. Dakan had yet to authorize the procedure. The fate of a dead and useless drell was at the ass end of his list of priorities. The detective canted up his head fringe. No, this was not the time to go pissing off Chellik. Dakan needed the senior detective back on his side. If Chellik discovered conspiracy among his subordinate officers, Neve would suffer for it.

"We've already lost Upshad," Dakan said as he pecked out instructions on his omni-tool. "This analysis could be the one thing that buys Neve a chance. Chellik can give her that chance."

Sirrus squeezed Dakan's arm. Not many salarians could cause a turian discomfort. Officer Sirrus was one of them.

"The only thing Chellik will give Neve once he reads that report is a death sentence at Huerta Memorial," the salarian said, his expression stony.

Dakan gave him a questioning look.

Releasing the detective's arm, Sirrus said, "Read it."

A tap of Dakan's talon opened the file attached to Zenta Labs' message. An active pane unfolded above his omni-tool. Dakan read.

_Detective Tallen:_

_ We've completed preliminary analysis and specimen trials on the vacu-sealed sample of venpuseezmar carlbin (vulgar argot: red sand) provided to us by Citadel Security. The sample is unique._

_ Preliminary chemical analysis yields the following: venpusis, eezo-emarin, carlbincasis, minagenitocin xedra-trivalix (vulgar argot: Minagen X3,) visctelapagen, trace amounts of talc and red no. 5._

_ The combination of the venpuseezmar carlbin and minagenitocin xedra-trivalix increases duration and strength of the temporary biotic abilities common red sand grants. Strength and duration of temporary biotics is determined by potency and volume of a given dose. Complete effects of visctelapagen (which we, at first, could not identify) on the mixture are, at this point in our analysis, unknown._

_ Visctelapagen is a compound derived from the blood, tissue, and cerebral fluid of a particular offshoot of the asari species. One of our asari technicians identified the compound and is currently compiling a report on its properties and source for your perusal (pending release from the asari councilor.) Until we have additional information from the asari republics, our limited specimen trial results are the only insights we have into the inclusion of the asari derived compound._

_ We performed cursory trials on immature pyjak specimens. Results were similar across all test subjects. Euphoria and biotic emissions were noted. When dosed in pairs or groups, "dominant" specimens emerged. In tainted pairs, once the dominant specimen manifested, the secondary specimen became mentally submissive. "Submissive" specimens deferred to dominants. When dominants were inattentive, submissives displayed confusion and poor motor control. In tainted groups of five plus, no more than two dominants ever manifested. Submissives within tainted groups were directed by the acknowledged dominant's mental state. When pairs of dominants aggressed, declared submissives fought amongst themselves on behalf of their acknowledged dominants. Once the drugs ran their course, behavior normalized. Dominant and submissive mental tendencies did not manifest in control groups and pairs._

_ Neither venpuseezmar carlbin nor minagenitocin xedra-trivalix accounts for the induced dominant and submissive mental traits and control triggers. From these results, we postulate visctelapagen as the contributing agent for these effects. Additionally, we've confirmed long term dark energy tissue saturation in at least one test subject. Biotic emissions from this subject persist with no signs of abatement._

_ Further trials are required for total analysis and to determine the full range of effects encouraged by the supplied sample. We eagerly await your response._

_ Cordially,_

_ Fams Zekt – Lead Chemical Analyst_

_ Zenta Labs_

Dakan raised his head. "Neve's biotic abilities aren't a fluke." The report supplied shallow corroboration. The confiscated drug created biotic potential documented in one human and one pyjak. That was enough to stir a lot of interest. Especially among the asari, the one species with a galactic monopoly on advanced biotic tech.

Understanding washed over the detective. Sirrus was right. They couldn't share this data with the senior detective. The salarian seemed to read Dakan's thoughts.

"We must secure all copies of this report and the sample from Zenta Labs," Sirrus said. "Ms. Cezetti's primary physician at Huerta Memorial is also a liability. If we act now, she will not be an obstacle."

"You have a plan?"

"Part of one." Sirrus hooked an arm around Dakan's dorsal shell and steered the turian to the desk he'd vacated. "Neve's asari doctor has denied all of my release requests."

"We can't transfer custody without primary physician approval."

"Unless a higher authority grants theirs," Sirrus chimed in. Reaching into the jacket of his casual blues, he extracted a folded document. "This is a Council order backed by Udina that secures Ms. Cezetti's release."

"I guess Udina's outrage is good for something after all," Dakan said.

"Indeed. We should go ahead with Ms. Cezetti's transfer immediately. Someone on the back end should be gathering all the data on this drug before Chellik or anyone else can use it against her."

Dakan swallowed. To think, he'd almost transmitted that report to the senior detective. His stomach performed a sickening turn. This discovery, well, it was huge. More than huge. If the effects of the modified red sand crossed over species, if biotics could be reliably manufactured, galactic warfare, the balance of power, would be forever altered. And only a handful of people knew about this potential discovery. While Dakan couldn't predict Chellik's reaction to Zenta Labs' report with total accuracy, he could formulate a solid theory.

The senior detective, being the honorable sort of hierarchy worshiping turian he was, would inform the Executor of Neve's biotic condition and of Zenta Labs' findings. The Executor, looking to smooth C-Sec relations with Udina and the Council, would exchange the information provided Udina shut his trap, that all Council races benefit from the information (not that that would necessarily occur,) and that the Council do its utmost on damage control on behalf of C-Sec's reputation. The turian and salarian Councilors would be champing at the bit to seize biotic dominance from the asari and Neve, Neve would end up both prisoner and lab pyjak at Huerta Memorial. There would be test after test after test. When it was all said and done, whether any biotic gains were made or not, all that would be left of Dakan's dancer would be bits of cataloged tissue and hair.

"Sam," Dakan blurted. "We need Sam Caruso."

"Technician Caruso?"

Dakan nodded. "He can wipe all the digital information on the drug. He can access Zenta Labs' servers or he'll know someone who can. The turian agent who headed the NOVA raid can collect the sample from Zenta. He has a working relationship with the lab. Containing the information from that end will be the most difficult."

"Just a moment." Sirrus drummed his fingers on his chin. "Send me the report. I want to read it. Wiping all traces of Zenta Labs' findings might not be in Ms. Cezetti's best interests."

As requested, Dakan forwarded Sirrus the report. After a quick scan of the document, the salarian glanced at the ceiling.

"It's the biotic tissue saturation we need to expunge. Debunk. Expunging, for now, would be quicker. Can technician Caruso alter the records? These dominant-submissive results back Neve's claim that she was possibly under external control."

"I don't know, but I can find out right now," Dakan said and started forward.

Sam wouldn't be anywhere but the cave. The human had been unusually busy since the gala. Dakan had messaged him several times to schedule a drink or a meal, anything to take his mind off this case for a few hours. Sam had begged off each invitation. He had cited his workload and had apologized, had promised they'd hang soon. Chellik had been leaning on his friend a lot recently. Though that was the case, Dakan couldn't shake the niggling suspicion that Sam avoided him. This report, however, was a problem he wouldn't let his human friend deflect. Sirrus cast an arm in Dakan's path, blocking him.

"Contact technician Caruso and your turian agent from the skycar. We can brief them in transit. Right now we need to suit up and get to Huerta Memorial before anyone on the Council changes their minds about where Ms. Cezetti should be detained."

Voicing his agreement, Dakan kept pace with the salarian as they headed to the equipment lockers. Stripped of his casual blues, Dakan shimmied into his protective sobrane suit and began snapping his armor in place. While he puzzled his hardsuit together, he called over the row of lockers separating himself from the salarian.

"Why are you doing this, Sirrus? You don't care about Neve."

Grunts and the sharp clack of locking versaplast punctuated Sirrus' response.

"No, but I care about justice. I care about the people NOVA's victimized in their drug and slave running. I care about keeping a potential scientific weapon out of the hands of a Council hopelessly out of touch with its citizens. That information could destroy countless lives. Not just Ms. Cezetti's. The price of that biological advancement is too high."

"I thought salarians supported scientific advancement no matter the ethical or moral cost. What about the genophage? What about the big picture?"

Sirrus scoffed. "The genophage was a calculated defensive strike. A decision made in wartime. We all would have died had the genophage failed or had the salarians or turians hesitated. These manufactured biotics are not the same. No one depends on them for survival. The big picture does not concern me. I'm not a scientist or a politician." The salarian rounded the row of lockers. His navy hardsuit was scratched and scorched with the scars of peacekeeping. "I'm an officer of Citadel Security. I'm here to protect this station's residents, not advance agendas. Neve Cezetti is under attack. If C-Sec won't help her, no one will."

Dakan certainly wouldn't argue with that.


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40: Come Fly With Me**

The hospital bed, the limp pillow, chatter from the vid screen I can't bring myself to silence, all of it makes my poor head pound.

_Evil fucking asari_, I think and curl into myself, cradle my throbbing skull. If Shia and asari like her didn't exist, I might start seeing how the Terra Firmas have a point in the asari's case.

The dull, persistent pain hugging my spine sharpens. I clench my teeth and flip onto my back, stretch, and curl my toes. Stretching keeps the pain tolerable. The invisible spikes puncturing my vertebrae dissolve. That foggy, migraine-like agony rolls back on in. I fling my arm over my face and shade my eyes. Light, even faint light, makes everything worse. And that evil fucking asari won't authorize any painkillers stronger than my regular over-the-counters. Meds corrupt the CSD—which is excruciating, by the by—results. The cerebral-spinal draw they performed on me a few days ago didn't turn out right. My doctor wants to run another one. When I'm a bit stronger. Right.

I take my bottom lip between my teeth. Vid chatter blares in my ears. The remote's at the end of the bed. If I lift my head I'm sure it'll explode. With a petulant grunt, I stretch myself though my back pops and protests. Muscles in my legs tense and lengthen. I reach out with my tippy-toes, swiping my foot back and forth until it bumps the plastic remote. Like a monkey, I curl my foot around the device and prod the haptic interface with the pad of my big toe. A minute of blind trial and error later and the vid screen shuts off. Sighing, I relax into the mattress. Blessed silence.

Shouting from the corridor disturbs my peace. The growing ruckus beats at the sides of my head. I growl. I'm steeling myself to holler "shut the fuck up" when the door to my hospital room slides open. The evil asari, who wants in my brain again, positions herself in the entryway. Arms and legs spread in the doorframe, she bars the path of whomever she bickers with.

"I forbid it," the asari spits.

Hoisting myself up—pain knifes into the base of my skull like a cold blade and shoots down my spine, but I don't fall back—I crane my neck and spot officer Sirrus planted just outside my door. He's speaking. Not to my doctor. He converses with someone I can't see. When I angle further for a better view, the cold fire running from the top of my skull to my lower back intensifies and spots my vision. I have to lay down. I keep my head turned toward the door.

Orange light engulfs the asari's left hand. Moving her arm would give officer Sirrus access to my room, so when she places her vid-call, she simply cants her head in her omni-tool's direction. My doctor bellows at another of her species who observes the situation from an active vid pane.

"Riveena, put me through to the Councilor immediately. The woman I have here—"

"Is Neve Cezetti, yes?" The second asari's voice sounds artificial over the vid-call transmission.

"I told you that the first time I contacted you!"

Riveena clears her throat. "Our Councilor has already aligned herself with her fellows and the human ambassador. Neve Cezetti is a dangerous criminal—" I bristle at the estimation "—and should be in C-Sec's custody."

"Because she hasn't heard what I have to tell her."

The honeyed, sing-song coating that glazes Riveena's tone gives way to sharpened steel beneath. "The Councilor has heard all she will about this human until her trial. Your petitions are bothersome and I assure you they fall on uncaring ears taxed to the limits of usually boundless patience."

"But—"

All cordial pretense vanishes from Riveena's manner. "Do you seriously think the Councilor has even a second to spare for you with this Saren-Shepard debacle? No." The second asari terminates the call, leaving my doctor gaping at an idle pane.

Arms crossed in the crevice of his concave torso and protruding chest, officer Sirrus leans forward. "Are you prepared to defy a Council order? Or shall we bring you in with Ms. Cezetti?"

_We?_

My doctor isn't cowed by officer Sirrus' threat. Braced arms shaking in the doorframe, lips quivering, she juts out her chin.

"The Councilor will pardon me once she knows. You are not leaving this facility with—"

Armored arms thrust through the asari barricaded entrance, one versaplast plated appendage on either side of my doctor's head. Taloned hands grasp the asari's shoulders. A whistle of air blows from her lips as she's lifted off her feet and deposited into the corridor. Her screeches bounce off the close walls and tile floor. Dusting his hands with a clapping motion, a turian I've been foolishly missing saunters into my room. Officer Sirrus scoots in behind him and hurriedly seals the door, puts his back to it. My doctor's still on the other side. She hammers and kicks at the barricade, jolting the salarian officer with each impact.

When I see Dakan, decipher his amber colony markings, read the unique grooves and nicks in his carapace like a well loved book, recognize the slash of a scar that edges out from the top of his neck bracer, I lurch up and forward. Misgivings and mistrust taint my thoughts of him, but that's all in my brain. My body doesn't give a shit. It wants to be near his. It translates the turian looking my way as familiar and safe and it drives me to those essentials. My body also hasn't recovered from the CSD and I have no meds buffering me from the pain.

It hits me like a Stinger blast to the back of the head. I suck in a breath. The excruciating sensation blots my vision. I don't see spots. I'm blind and hurting and I immediately crumple onto the mattress, a cringing, whimpering mess.

The _clomp-clomp-clomp_ of hardboots on tile signals someone's approach. Either Dakan or Sirrus, I can't tell. The bed dips when that someone settles at my side. A hand cups the back of my head. Nails, talons, I realize, lightly scrape my scalp. This is Dakan next to me. When my vision fades back in, I see his blue armored hip and thigh beside my face. Turning my head, I gaze up at him. The turian's a smear of blue, silver, and gray-green veined with amber. My eyelids flutter. A tear or two tracks along my temple and soaks in my hair. Dakan comes into focus.

Turian faces aren't particularly expressive. Their metallic face plates are static. They shift when the aliens speak, but subtle emotion can't be gleaned from the slant of their brow plates or the sharp angles of their mouths. Like humans, turian eyes are peepholes into their spirits. What you can't determine in their features or stance is telegraphed in their hooded gazes. Chips of glittering amber peer out at me from Dakan's deep and shadowed sockets. Concern softens them. When he notices me reading him, his eyes go blank. The hand that pets me jerks away from my head. His posture stiffens. Head swiveling, he gives the room a cursory visual sweep.

"Where's your support tech?" He asks. "Your nutrition filter, chem-vendor?"

The tubes and needles piping nutrients and medicines into me were removed my first week here. I eat solids three times a day. Monitored, I exercise in the roof level activity center. Meds come via capsule or injection. I explain all that in halting, galloping sentences.

"They took me off all the ansthecs after they screwed up the first CSD results."

"CSD?" Dakan questions me, but it's officer Sirrus who answers.

"Cerebral-spinal draw." The salarian officer pulls away from the door on which my asari doctor still pounds. "It's an invasive procedure. A creeper drone is fixed to the base of the skull. Its s-vines root along the spine and embed in the brain. They withdraw samples of spinal and cerebral fluid. Blood too. Very painful."

I tuck my knees to my chest. After a beat, Dakan's hand returns to my head. His touch is light. When I don't cringe or pull away, his hand moulds to the curve of my skull. Talons rake my hair away from my neck. I hiss when a few strands catch on my biotic dampener collar. Shifting the device, Dakan investigates the little crusted over punctures from the creeper drone's pinchers. He makes a disgusted sound.

"Get her dressed," officer Sirrus says. "The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can get her proper care at the hub. And we might slip out of here without any trouble from the humans outside."

A chirping, electronic alarm goes off right by my ear. Dakan's omni-tool. Even the delicate chiming sends an achy shudder down my back. At my reaction, Dakan hushes the alert.

"The crowd control we sent for has arrived," he says.

"Good. You take care of her." Sirrus glances reluctantly at the vibrating door. "I'll take care of that."

The lock interface sealing the entrance cycles from red to green. Officer Sirrus slides through the gap, blocking the outraged asari before she enters. The door closes on their caterwauling and locks itself.

I start pushing myself up once the salarian's gone. Exertion makes my arms tremble. Dakan catches me by the shoulders when my elbows buckle.

"Here we go," he says and sits me up.

The papery gown tied to me gapes open at the back. Cold air slides up my spine and breezes about my waist. The clicking I hear is my teeth chattering. Dakan rubs my arms. The friction does nothing for my chills, but it does warm my heart. Scowling at my lap, I ball my hands into fists, clenching them so tight I'm sure I'll draw blood. I will not show this turian that I need him. That I've missed him. He doesn't deserve it. Or me.

"Are your clothes in here?"

I nod. "Closet." Point to the far right side of the room.

Rising, Dakan explores the area I indicate. I'm stable without his support. He finds the tiny chamber next to the bathroom and returns to the bed with my gown draped over his shoulder and a pair of heels pinched together in one hand. Like a fresh catch, he slings the lacy garment onto the mattress and places the heels on the floor. He scratches the underside of his head fringe and averts his eyes.

"I'll, ah, wait outside."

Pursing my lips at the outfit, I say, "No. I'll need your help." Because I know I can't dress myself without busting my ass.

I hold out my hand and Dakan offers me his arm. Using him as a crutch, I gain my footing. The tile freezes my bare soles. I roll up and down on the balls of my feet and hug myself, tug at the knots binding the hospital gown to my body. It folds down, comes away from my shoulders and chest. Chilly air puckers and tightens my nipples. Dakan tips his head ceiling-ward as the gown drops to the floor. I snag the dress from the bed and, with one hand, brace myself against his chest while I step into it.

"You've seen me naked before, you know." I twist my arm into the lacy sleeve, difficult with the dampener at my wrist, and shrug the dress over one shoulder. Alternating bracing hands, I repeat the process on my other side. "Isn't staring at the ceiling pretty pointless?"

"Doesn't seem right with everything that's happened between us." Dakan's throat convulses when he swallows.

"I'm a dancer. And a model. I'm used to people looking at me. It's my job."

"You're not a product, Neve. Not something to consume. Not to me, anyway. There's more to you than your job. There are more important things than—"

"Than what?"

Dakan's head snaps downward at my retort. I'm covered, as much as this frock covers, so he doesn't commit any transgressions.

"Money?" I ask. "Noteriety? Stability? Survival?" I raise one brow at him. "Duty?"

Dakan's jaw opens. Nothing comes out. I think he's decided to keep quiet when he speaks.

"I didn't used to think so," he says and sets his hands on my shoulders. "Which is why I lied to you…about everything. I thought I could have it both ways. Duty and desire. But, eventually, one wins out over the other. Eventually, you choose."

I adjust the scandalously low cut gown. "So, which did you choose?"

"I'm here aren't I?"

Yes, he is.

Reaching out, I hang onto Dakan's shoulders and try stepping into my shoes. My ankle wobbles, then gives. Since I've already got a good grip on Dakan, I don't fall. His hands go to my waist. I luxuriate in the intimate pressure until I remember I'm a woman done wrong and should be snooty and dismissive.

"I'll get those," Dakan says and I let him sit me on the bed.

The gala dress Dalessia picked for me is in astoundingly good condition considering all it's been through. Small tears gap open at the sleeves and the cuffs and hem are tattered, but I doubt anyone could tell from afar. Crouched at my feet, Dakan rucks the gown up over my knees. He takes one ankle in hand, lifts my foot, and slips on one pump like the fabled glass slipper. When he raises my foot, my first impulse is to shy away. Dancer's feet are gnarly. Mine are no exception. A layer of solid callus toughens the ball and heel of each one and I've always got blisters and split toenails.

My leg bucks in Dakan's hold then I remember he's already seen my feet up close and personal. The image of him scoring my instep with his covered talon and giving me a playful bite there pops into my head unbidden. Heat prickles at my cheeks and neck. I squirm, pressing my thighs together to combat the needy ache that intensifies between my legs. Both high heels are on. Dakan slides his hands up the outside of my calves, my thighs. My chest rises and falls faster than it should.

"No one could take their eyes off you at the gala," Dakan says as he tugs the hem of my gown back over my knees.

"Well, Dalessia was blasting biotics through me. And she did almost make me kill Udina." I stare down at him from my perch on the bed. The taut points of my breasts push against the lace, making little peaks. I want to cover them, but that would draw more attention to my chest and Dakan is concentrated on my face.

Gusty laughter puffs out the turian's mandibles. "That's not what I meant. You look beautiful in this dress." Noting his hands still rest on my legs, he coughs and stands. "Well, you look beautiful all the time, but this dress is," he motions at the plunging neckline, "nice."

I trace the smooth curve of one of my wrist dampeners, tuck my hair behind my ears. "You think I'm beautiful?"

I know I'm beautiful. My appearance is a powerful asset. But knowing for a fact I have great aesthetics stamped on my genetic code, trading in on it to earn my way, depreciates its personal value. When someone says, "you're beautiful" they might as well say "your eyes are gray" or "your hair is long." The words "you're beautiful" ring hollow.

Not when Dakan says them.

When Dakan says, "you look beautiful all the time," my heart splutters. Warmth spreads through my chest. The backs of my eyes prickle. I want to hear it again when I ask him if he really thinks that's so. The question has nothing to do with self-doubt.

"Yes," he says and I'm nearly overwhelmed with emotion.

* * *

The crowd hisses and snarls, snaps and bellows. The ground jitters with the force of their collective stamping and shouting. Dakan squeezes one of my wrists. The gesture is small, but it fortifies me. He's here. Sirrus is here. The detective and officer flank me. The each have a hold of one of my arms which are cuffed—they bound my dampeners together instead of using kinetic bands—behind my back. The three of us wait at the entrance to Huerta Memorial while crowd control does their job.

"They weren't this agitated before," officer Sirrus mutters. "But they've seen her."

When we had first approached Huerta Memorial's entrance, the crowd was rowdy, not enraged. One of the protesters had spotted me through the glass double doors and had stoked the assembly's furor. People, humans, had spilled around the loosely formed C-Sec guard, who hadn't paid their assignment much attention until now.

Crowd control herds the gathering out of the avenue while ampliflies take to the skyway. Hardsuited C-Sec officers drive protesters behind their proverbial line in the sand. The officers come together, lock arms, and form a living barricade against the writhing mass of humanity.

"Looks like they've got it under control," Dakan says. "Let's get her to the car."

An unmarked skycar waits at a docking area at the end of the block. Angry humans swarm both sides of the avenue. The gauntlet awaits.

The automatic doors whoosh open. Warm air gusts back the hem of my gown. The shouts of the crowd, which were incoherent inside the facility, assault my ears and my self-esteem.

"Traitor!"

"Whore!"

"Alien loving bitch!"

Contorted faces bob up and down from the swell of bodies. Everyone wants a glimpse of the would-be assassin. Hover cams rise above the crowd. Ampliflies buzz around the media tech encroaching on their territory. I blink when the cams' spots click on. Raised omni-tools flash as still programs capture my image. Everyone wants an exclusive. I've always craved fame, but now I'm infamous and the cams and crowds and attention are my enemies.

"Asarisite!" A woman screams. Others join her. The pejorative becomes a chant.

Asarisites are humans, usually women, who model themselves after the asari. Some tint their skin, cut their hair, chase trends, and most select professions dominated by their idol species: dancing, hostessing, modeling, singing, acting. Anything in the entertainment industry. I draw up the emotional barriers anyone living in the Lower Wards needs to survive. Insults bounce off me like hurled grains of rice. The spit? That sticks.

A man scrabbles to the edge of the crowd as we pass. He lurches over the linked arms of human and turian C-Sec officers. Phlegmy gargling precedes his assault. Tilting back his head, he puckers his lips and _ptews_. A thick, slimy wad splatters the center of my brow. I groan in disgust, shake my head. Nauseating muck oozes down the bridge of my nose. The man roars with laughter.

"You sure your last name isn't Williams, bitch!"

Dakan snarls at the man and scrapes what he can from my face, keeps me moving. The comparison to General Williams baffles me until I take a good look around. There's not an alien face in the crowd besides those in C-Sec blues. They all think I'm some kind of anti-human terrorist. They think I've betrayed my species. I catch a human officer's eye. Accusation. Her upper lip pulls back. Does her duty chafe? Would she enjoy watching this mob rip me apart?

The mucus money shot emboldens the protesters. More of them fight the C-Sec blockade. Sirrus and Dakan ramp up their pace, almost dragging me along.

"Be ready," Dakan growls at his partner and no sooner does the final word leave his mouth when the second strike comes. This time it's deadly.

People charge C-Sec's lines like a game of Red Rover gone wrong. They seek out weak links and find them. While two men hammer two officers' clasped hands, a woman scuttles beneath them, avoids a dozen stamping feet, and wriggles between a pair of armored legs. One of the stymied officers makes to grab her, but his partner shouts.

"Do not let go! Hold the line!"

The woman dashing for us is in the clear. She skids to a halt at our left. Breaking away from Dakan and I, officer Sirrus rushes her, arms outstretched to take her out. As the salarian sprints, the woman lifts the hem of her flow dress. She whips a compact pistol from its snug holster strapped about her thigh. The black opening at the end of the barrel points right at me.

"Get down!" Sirrus hollers.

I'm backing into Dakan, shrinking from the gun, when the salarian calls to us. The command doesn't register. All I see is the gun. All I think is, _run_.

The woman, her eyes rimmed white, fires. I only catch a glimpse of her crazed expression and gnashed teeth. The crowd and C-Sec officers blur in a smear of color and confused noise. I'm swung around. Doubling us over, Dakan curls his body over mine. I feel him take the shot. He grunts and pitches into me.

"Dakan!" I scream as our knees hit the ground.

The rise of the turian's chest pushes me forward. His armor digs into my back. He still has me gathered to him.

"Are you alright?" He asks, both sets of his vocals strained.

"You're hit!"

The laugh that blows across my cheek is weary. "My shields were."

A scramble of blue light travels from the ground to the space above our heads. Aftershocks from the round's impact make Dakan's kinetic shields temporarily visible. Energy, not unlike a biotic field, encases us. Once the shields recalibrate from the blast, they're invisible once more.

"Get going, detective," officer Sirrus calls from behind us, his voice almost lost in the din of the crowd. "Get her to the skycar!"

"Ready to run?" Dakan whispers to me. We're moving before my lips part.

Air evacuates my lungs when Dakan hauls me upright. My surroundings swerve, but I'm running. I have no choice. Dakan has me by the arm and if I don't keep pace he'll drag me to the damn skycar.

There's Sirrus. The salarian straddles the gunwoman's hips. She's on her stomach, kicking and shrieking as he twists her arms behind her back, cuffs her wrists in a set of glowing bands. The further Dakan and I penetrate the gauntlet, the closer the crowd seems to press in on us. Many faces, many eyes, jabbering mouths, and chattering teeth zoom by. Everywhere, I see guns. They flash in people's hands. Or are those flashes from still programs snapping my likeness? My bones vibrate as my feet pound the tile. My muscles burn as they push me towards the open skycar. Our path seems to narrow. The crowd's going to swallow us.

It doesn't, of course.

Their proximity, the guns, it's all in my head. The mind is powerful. When we squeak into the skycar, I feel we've narrowly escaped a crushing death.

Dakan slides in the backseat until his back flattens against the cabin's far wall. He pulls me with him and shelters me with his arms and his body. Sirrus isn't far behind. The salarian grasps the ledge of the skycar's open hatch and swings into the cabin beside us. With two, quick pounds to the ceiling, he signals the driver. The hatch closes, blotting out the discordance of the tumultuous crowd and the skycar lifts off.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** I meant to mention this last week due to PMs, but forgot. I don't comment in the review section because I also publish original fic and authors posting in reader review spaces are a big no-no. I apologize if anyone thought I was ignoring them. I appreciate all the reviews and crits. They keep me going. If there's anything you want me to respond to directly, please send me a PM anytime. The only things I won't discuss are future plot threads. Thanks guys!_


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41: Dancing To The Jailhouse Rock**

From a side compartment in the skycar, Dakan pulls a tissue. He dabs at my face and chest, removing all traces of spittle.

"Animals," he says under his breath. Officer Sirrus catches the comment.

"Thank Udina for that. All those media appearances were bound to have an effect." To me, he says, "You'll be able to shower at the hub after we process you."

"You're putting me in jail?"

Why this shocks me, I can't say. I never figured I'd go to _actual_ jail. Fake jail, maybe. Some cushy facility under sparse guard where the politicos and CEOs and celebrities go. I'm not any of those things though I think I qualify. The public might believe I'm a batshit terrorist-assassin, but these two sitting next to me? They know I was under Dalessia's control. They sent me back to the asari's eager clutches. With a juicy deal in exchange for my willing cooperation, yes, but the point is they know. There's no way I should be tossed in a barren cell at one of their hubs.

"Neve, I know I told you…" Dakan absently strokes my upper arm. Shifting, I put a sliver of space between us, so my tethered extremities aren't crushed by his armor. I curl my fingers, coax the feeling into them as Dakan finds his words. "A cell is the safest place for you. Truly. We need to keep you holed up and under guard until your trial is finished."

Trial. My asari doctor spoke of a trial. I thought she was out of her mind. I guess not. And what did Dakan mean before he trailed off and started going on about what's best for me? What did he tell me? I muddle through my memories. I've been loopy on drugs, legal and illegal, for close to a month. Gaps and blurry bits riddle my mind. A hazy recollection manifests.

At the gala, after I cleared the room, Dakan held me a little like he holds me now except I was way out of it. I was so scared. Was Udina alive? Had I killed him? What would C-Sec do with me? Did they think I'd double crossed them? While Dakan had me close he comforted me. He promised C-Sec wouldn't take me away. An empty promise meant to calm me, make me believe that everything would be alright.

I can't hold Dakan to that pledge. Resting my head on his chest, I say, "I know there's nothing you can do about it." Behind me, some of the tension goes out of Dakan. "What trial is everyone talking about? You all know about Dalessia and NOVA and the drugs and how they dose up their operatives. The only reason I was even at the gala was because Chellik wanted me to spy on her. If I never went to the shoot she never would have drugged me."

"And we have some evidence supporting that," officer Sirrus says. The skycar's window frames the salarian's head. Candy colored air taxis in the lanes beside ours zip passed. Their mass effect drives emit a high pitched whine. "What we don't have, what we've never had, is a link between Kella and NOVA."

I squirm until I'm sitting straighter. Dakan helps me adjuster my position. "But my biotics. What about the mutations and whatever Huerta Memorial pumped out of me in the detox? They have records of all that."

Officer Sirrus shakes his head. "That doesn't prove Kella supplied the drugs. Here's what we have." The salarian tics off each fact on a finger. "A number of aliens involved in assassinations and assassination attempts over the last five years have been found with levels of red sand and minagen X3 in their systems comparable to what was found in yours. Three of those cases involved biotics, but the subjects already possessed talents for manipulating dark energy either since birth or puberty. One of those surviving subjects mentioned Kella by name. Another mentioned NOVA but not Kella.

"The drugs can be tied to NOVA through documentation and first hand accounts from undercover agents we placed on Omega. Kella cannot. Orders to Aridi Sin were placed via alias or via an employee at NOVA owned corporate fronts.

"We have you under contract with Band Cluster Agencies and in contact with Kella prior to the attempt. We have nothing relevant from your undercover work with Kella and only your word and off-the-record knowledge of how chameleon operatives deploy that you are not, in fact, a double agent. You showed up at the gala independent of Kella with another employee of hers already dosed. You claim Kella dosed you after the Potential Barriers shoot. We have nothing backing that claim."

Dakan offers his two creds. "There is data proving that you could have been under external control. Zenta Labs provided us with a chemical analysis of the specialty red sand we confiscated from NOVA's Omega storage site. There's also data in the report that suggests your node development could be connected to this drug."

That's good news. Hopeful news. My face must betray my thoughts because officer Sirrus is quick to counteract Dakan's encouragement.

"Documentation of those biotic mutations occurring in other test subjects exists. Would you really want that information made public in a trial?"

I consider that. What will happen to me if everyone finds out about my overnight biotics? A Neve's-last-two-weeks-at-Huerta-Memorial montage plays in my mind. I relive the isolation, the constant monitoring, and the tests. I wasn't a human being. I was a lab rat. Revealing Zenta Lab's biotic findings to the public will rob me of my freedom as surely as a conviction will. The salarian responds to my loaded, lip gnawing silence.

"I don't believe you will have any control over your future if that data is leaked. And if we did present that portion of the report as evidence, all we would prove is that you had a specific drug in your system that opened your mind to another's influence and granted you biotic talents."

"There's still no link," I mumble and collapse onto Dakan's chest.

Individual pieces of evidence with no commonality won't prove my innocence. All I'll look like to a tribunal is a homicidal junkie with a contact or two within higher society. And when they get their hands on my mom's records…If my hands weren't mushed against Dakan's front I'd cover my face with them. As it is, I cluck my tongue and stare helplessly at the skycar cabin's roof until what I should have thought of right away gongs in my head.

"Vlair," I say. "He knows everything."

And I know he's a drell who can be bought. The moment I met Vlair, his calculating, mercenary nature and predatory sexuality had set all the fine hairs of my body on end and screaming. Not for a second do I suppose he has an iota of care for me or my fate, but if the deal on the table's worth his while, I'd bet my nonexistent signing bonus with Band Cluster Agencies that his loyalty to Dalessia can be bartered.

"Vlair Upshad is dead," Dakan says. An undercurrent of malice infects his primary vocals. His feelings regarding the drell must be intense if I can pick them up so easily.

The revelation depresses me. My mouth hangs open. My tongue dries. I swallow a few times and moisten my lips.

"When did it happen?" I ask. "How?"

"About a week ago," Dakan answers. "We believe Kella had a hand in it. We won't know for sure until we get the autopsy results."

A hard, hot lump weights my stomach. Thoughts chase themselves in a mobius strip. Dalessia has everything, literally everything, that can incriminate her under control or exterminated. The space behind my breastbone constricts. I recognize the ache of regret. That I mourn Vlair surprises me. The drell helped Dalessia keep me captive. He ruined my shot at getting information on C-Sec. He also stuck up for me at Lanaral's shoot when that one asari shit talked me and, damn, but he was a joy to behold. A waste of alien eye candy. Anger bubbles up in my chest. Being outplayed at every avenue has me grinding my teeth. I'm not a giver-upper and I don't plan to though Dalessia's given me every good reason.

"OK, so what about you guys?" I glance at Sirrus then over my shoulder at Dakan. "You know I didn't do it. You know the only reason Udina's still alive is because I kicked Dalessia out of my brain."

Officer Sirrus massages his brow. His head is lowered and his black, almond shaped eyes are closed. "Yes, we know, but we can't prove it. Yet. There's nothing we can say or present that a halfway decent prosecutor couldn't refute and Udina's pushing for a swift conviction."

"But I have a deal with Chellik."

I've reached the end of the salarian's patience. Officer Sirrus whips around so we're face to face.

"Any deal you may have had with Chellik won't stop him from throwing you to the varren. His reputation, C-Sec's reputation, is worth more to him than you." The salarian sinks onto the seat and gazes out the window, rubbing his fingers over his chin.

A comforting squeeze draws me out of my stupor. I angle around. Dakan pats my arm.

"We'll have your testimony and probably Chellik's. Your work with C-Sec will be acknowledged. That will put pressure on Kella. This trial may be the link connecting her to NOVA we need."

"But that won't save me."

The breath Dakan takes gusts out of him. "No."

The rest of our spin to the Zakera point hub elapses in strained silence. Several times, I get the impression Dakan wants to speak—the way he shifts behind me, the small noises he utters without thinking—but he holds his peace. The skycar travels from the lush greens, sharp silvers, delicate pinks, and clear blues of the Presidium into murky gloom. Transit tubes connect the Presidium Ring to the rest of the Wards. Skyway traffic bottle-necks in the tubes. We're bumper to bumper for a time.

Neon displays painting Zakera Ward splash garish colors on the skycar's windows when we exit the tube. I meditate on my first encounters with the Citadel's metropolis arms. The sights and sounds of the Wards used to captivate me. I'd wander the avenues and civilian districts just to see all there was to see. The idea that this high-speed view of the galactic melting pot that's been my adopted home for years might be my last has me straining to take in all I can from my limited view. There's so much I haven't experienced. Chasing fame and fortune gives me tunnel vision. Only the goal—stardom—exists. With your eye on the prize twenty-four-seven, the extraordinary world all around you goes un-savored.

Has my single-minded tenacity robbed me of pleasures in which I might have indulged?

No, no. My head slashes to and fro, definitively, no. Without access to its numerous luxuries, all of which come with a steep price tag, you might live on the Citadel, but you won't _live_ on the Citadel. In Dalessia's company, I get booked in places like Pure. Galas and after-parties and knocking elbows with the beautiful and talented is everyday life. That's what I want: the permanent shine of glamour, the galactic-wide knowledge that I am, in fact, a big goddamned deal.

People beat you when you let them.

You've lost only when you give up.

I won't give up.

Dalessia hasn't beat me.

Trial is just another word for stage and tribunal another word for audience. I'm an expert on both. Public opinion wins positive verdicts. Sometimes. At least a couple of times, I'm sure.

By the time the skycar touches down in a private docking area on the point, my legs go up and down nonstop. Dakan leans down near my face. His words tickle my ear.

"Don't worry, Neve."

I snort. "Shia's been in jail and she's fine and if she can handle it, I can handle it and worry is a pretty useless activity, you know." I gulp quick breaths between phrases. "Totally. Fucking. Useless. Everyone who's anyone's been to jail and I'm pretty certain Zanica Lau'la wrote one of her singles in holding because everything's an opportunity, right? There are no closed doors."

My jaw is a bear trap snapping shut on my babbling. The nonsensical spew ceases. Chin wobbling, I lock my focus on the cabin's ceiling. Officer Sirrus is a fuzzy presence in my periphery. Until the salarian exits the vehicle, I don't let my concentration waver, then I fold at the middle. My forehead touches my knees. A hand rests flat on my back.

"We have to go," Dakan says and gives me a gentle shove with his hip.

Right. The first step, or scooch in this case, is always the hardest. I take it. Once I'm moving, mental autopilot kicks on. With Dakan's help, I slide out of the skycar. The back of my gown clings to my thighs and wedges up my butt. Performing a little shake dance, I de-wedgie and hold my head high as we file through exterior processing. To access any secure facility, you must be scanned.

"Back so soon, sweetheart?"

Sneering dual vocals dismiss the disassociative fog cushioning me from my surroundings. Turning my head in the speaker's direction, I find a turian manning the scanner controls. I know this turian and his crimson colony markings. His name's Santius. The last time I was here, when I brought that quarian news of her step-brother, he wouldn't let me in the hub. Shia's matriarch minder bribed my way in the end. Fierce eyes glitter at me from the depths of his cavernous sockets.

"In for a longer stay this time?" Santius asks and bares his teeth.

From my side, Dakan cuts in front of me. "You need your mouth to work those controls, officer?" Mandibles flared to their fullest extent, Dakan glares at the other turian until the officer ducks his head.

"No, detective," he grumbles and exterior processing unfolds without incident.

The inside of the Zakera point hub is how I remember it. White walls box us in. Metal desks, chairs, and instruments gleam menacingly beneath unforgiving overheads. A hallway at the rear of the central chamber branches to the holding cells. That's where patrolman Chandra brought me on my first visit and that's where I'll end up this time, but not before they gather all my personal data and file it. I watch plenty of _C-Sec's Most Dangerous_. I know how this shit works.

Through an automatic door on our left, we peel off the central chamber and into interior processing. Rows of folding chairs occupy the center of the room. In those chairs, haggard individuals await their turn at the check stations—boxed in cubicles lining the room's perimeter.

I'm sat in a dented chair in the third row next to another woman who reeks of batarian ale. She snores. About every thirty seconds, her head dips so far forward I think she'll fall out of her seat. She never does.

Abandoning me in this bizarre theater, Dakan and officer Sirrus disappear behind another automatic door at the fore of the processing center. I sigh and arrange my limbs in the most comfortable position I can. I zone out until it's my turn.

We move over a seat with each prisoner processed. Eventually, I'm in the last chair. A turian officer in casual blues in front of the first station calls my name and the procedure begins. The turian escorts me from station to station. They collect scans of my fingerprints. Latex gloves cover all the processors' hands to protect them from anything transmissible I might have.

Behind an opaque, versaplast screen, a human officer, a woman with a tight crop of blond hair, divests me of anything sharp on my person. Because of their spike heels, my shoes are confiscated. I get a pair of paper booties elasticed to my feet and my nutso bag lady ensemble is complete. Another female officer ducks behind the screen. She draws her pistol and keeps it ready at her side while blondie separates my dampeners from each other and tells me to strip. I comply. Blondie checks my body for identifying marks, cuts, and signs of infection. When they're done, they leave my hands free.

At the final station, I get my prisoner ID. I should get a cell now, but another officer, a woman I recognize, intercepts my turian escort.

"She's due for a physical and decontaminant," patrolman Chandra says. "Her arresting officer will handle her transit to holding."

The turian nods and releases me to patrolman Chandra's care.

We enter the same central passage that claimed Dakan and officer Sirrus. A long corridor stretches before us. Many doors, all sealed, stud the walls. Noises, sometimes painful noises, come from the locked chambers. Gulping, I look to patrolman Chandra for whatever small assurance I can. Our first meeting, when she led me to the quarian's cell, was cordial. She gave me hope about the quarian woman's future and she liberated Shia's omni-tool from the evidence impound. If there's anything I can use a little of right now, it's kindness.

"Have you heard from Shia since she's been on Thessia?" I ask, knowing the two have had at least one date. I haven't heard from my friend, but I also haven't checked my messages in ages.

Charged silence is the only response I get. The patrolman's face is stern. Fine lines of tension crease her lips and brow. Eyes like obsidian discs fix on the path ahead. My shoulders come up to my ears and my chin sinks to my chest. I stay hunched like that until we reach our end point.

At one of the dozens of doors, patrolman Chandra stops me. Keying in the correct code cycles the lock interface green and the door slides apart. Inside this chamber is a treatment chair and a human gentleman in med-whites. There's a jolly look about him that's utterly incongruous with our ominous surroundings. His hair is so dark and slick it shines like one of his polished instruments. Smiling, he gestures at an opening in the partition at his back which serves as the medical suite's back wall.

"Why don't we start with the decontaminant," he says and that wide grin of his makes arches of his eyes. "That'll give me some prep time."

Decontaminant is fancy code for "shower." I deposit my gown and paper booties into a bin patrolman Chandra extends. She lingers at the back of the large stall, eyes averted, while I bathe. The experience isn't the simple luxury I hope for.

Icy water pelts my skin from the overhead spigot. I gasp under the stinging spray. Moisture sheets over my dampeners, their fragile mechanisms protected by the versaplast casing. I dispense liquid cleanser from the vendor fixed to the wall as fast as I can and soap my hair and body. An oversweet, chemical tang rises from the suds slipping across my chill bumped skin. I wrinkle my nose at the artificial scent, rinse myself, and shut off the frigid stream.

Trembling, my bangs a damp blindfold over my eyes, I cast about for the dryer switch, fingers sliding over the smooth wall. A moth's flutter of a touch glances my bare shoulder blade. About facing and rumpling my hair out of my eyes, I discover patrolman Chandra with a scrap of towel in hand. Her gaze is downcast. I accept the cloth and, with my back to her, pat myself dry.

"We vid-chat when we can. Her mother keeps her busy. She wants her in politics or business. Doesn't approve of her life on the Citadel."

The husky response startles me. As I wring the wet from my hair, I'm at a loss for the subject of this sudden confession. A vision of azure skin and gold gilt flits in my mind's eye.

Shia. I'd asked the patrolman about Shia in the hall and she's finally caved. I sag as I twist my hair into a bun and tuck under the ends to secure the style. The patrolman gave me the tenderness I sought and it hurts more than the obscenities hurled at me in front of Huerta Memorial, more than the perfunctory, clinical manner with which the processing staff treated me. I close myself off from that acute pain, shut down the ports to my heart like the emergency seals in a quarian's enviro-suit.

"I miss her." Stiff, dead voice.

"As do I," patrolman Chandra responds.

A soothe-booster shot into my arm magic wands my migraines and back pain away. I'm so eager for relief I don't give two rips it's coming via the sharp and pointy end of something sharp and pointy. I salivate for the drugs. I think of my mom. Temporary concern that I understand her desperation better flutters in my belly. Then the drugs take hold and I don't care.

Delicious warmth spreads through my limbs and chest. My inner self sinks into a hot bath after the worst day. My head is floaty. Not a bad floaty. Good, good floaty. I'm trying to shake the idiot grin off my face, imagining my lips winging off and splatting against the wall, giggling at the fancy when Dakan enters.

"Is she ready?" My turian asks.

The jolly doctor swivels in his chair. "All yours, detective."

That initial, fantastic rush from the booster makes my legs goofy when I get up from the treatment chair. In my booties, I slip and slide to Dakan, twine my fingers with his, and swing our arms like we're out for a stroll. Suppressing nervous laughter, he shakes our hands apart and gently cuffs the nape of my neck.

"You give her something?" Dakan asks.

"Just good, wholesome painkillers," jolly doctor says and chuckles. "That euphoria should wear off in a minute."

"Got it." Dakan wrangles my hands behind my back and re-joins my wrist dampeners, steers me by my linked arms into the deserted hall. He bends to my ear. "Not that I don't enjoy your hand in mine, but it might give people the wrong idea about us."

I giggle and when Dakan prods me onward, I Alliance high-step down the corridor.

Once we're shuffling among the holding cells, I'm back in my right mind. Prisoners pacing or staring blankly ahead in their pens sobers me. Dakan must sense the down-shift in my mood. His hand returns to the back of my neck. The gesture appears controlling and cruel. What no one sees in the intimacy of the touch, how careful Dakan is, how he runs a talon along the side of my neck. A wicked shiver shakes my shoulders. This is the only way he can show me he's still on team Neve.

In the cell, my very own cell, he parts my bound hands. I whirl to face him, but make certain I don't reach out or touch him. Schooling my expression neutral, I gaze just over his shoulder. If I meet his eye, I'll crack.

"If the worst happens and this," my voice catches on the word, "ends up my permanent home—" Dakan's already ramping up to interrupt me, so I get louder and talk faster "—get Chellik to get my mom up here." My eyes dart from my feet to his armored chest. "Please."

Dakan's hands go up like he wants to grab me. He clutches empty air.

"This isn't permanent," he says. "I promised you I wouldn't stop until I made this right. I won't. We have time. I'll find the link between Kella and NOVA. No one's that good. Everyone makes mistakes and enemies. I just have to find them."

"But if you don't—"

"I will." This time, Dakan does grab me. His fingers slowly relax around my arms and his hands drop to his sides. "I'll talk to Chellik either way."

"Thank you."

I retreat to the bench/bed attached to the wall and sit on it, polish the floor with one grime dusted bootie. Dakan hesitates like there's anything left to say then leaves. I stretch out on my bunk and project morbid daydreams onto the white ceiling overhead. If I'm convicted, I guesstimate how long my sanity will withstand this blank and unchanging environment. What will become of my mom? Can Dakan and I have conjugal visits? Options are limited in the joint after all. I can forgive a lot for a moment of frenzied joy in a place like this.

All these worries swarm in my head. What should concern me is surviving the next few hours, but the Citadel alarms haven't sounded yet and nothing's exploded, so what can I do but rest?


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42: Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto**

Dakan trudged out of holding cell row. His pace quickened as he entered Zakera Point hub's central chamber. Seeing Neve behind a versaplast wall brought him low.

_It's the safest place for her. She won't be attacked or assimilated into some research lab's grand schemes._

The inner justification didn't remove the urgency from his stride. He had to get back to the Junction hub immediately. At his desk, in front of his p-terminal, he'd go over each piece of information on the NOVA case again. Neve's freedom was tied to the details of the investigation. Details were Dakan's specialty. The link joining Kella to NOVA was there, he just had to sieve it from the existing data. Impatience itched at his fingers. They swept the space in front of him as he visualized his research strategy. He could start the process in transit to the Junction hub. Working from his omni-tool frustrated him, but it was worth the aggravation if he found what he needed sooner.

"Dakan! Hey!"

The detective's head jerked right. Sam pelted towards him. The automatic doors leading to interior processing _snicked_ shut behind the tech. Splotches of color flamed the human's cheeks. He trotted the rest of the distance to Dakan and bent double when he reached the detective, hands supporting his weight on his thighs.

"I heard you moved Neve here," Sam said while caught his breath.

"We have," Dakan said.

"I've been messaging you. Wanted to catch you before case work buried you again."

"Can you walk and talk?"

"Walk, yes. Run? No."

Dakan motioned him onward. "You can ride back with me in the skycar." Omni-tool illuminated, Dakan swept an active pane above the interface gauntlet and checked his inbox. Messages from Sam with a subject line of "Zenta Labs" clogged his recent receptions. Chat invite alerts popped up in smaller panes as well. He dismissed them all. "Zenta Labs give you trouble?" Dakan's mandibles clicked against the sides of his jaws. Sorting trouble with the labs would slow his research.

"The opposite, actually," Sam said, struggling to match Dakan's hurried step. The turian slowed once he noticed his friend's difficulty. They navigated incoming traffic bogging the central chamber. "The reports are all taken care of. Accessing their servers was nightmarishly simple. I don't think C-Sec should channel anything else through them." He cut between two turian patrolmen then caught up with Dakan. "Your agent from Omega secured the sample."

"All of it?"

"So he says. One of the techs there is an asari. She and Fams Zekt worked on your analysis." Sam grinned. "Lucky for us she's sweet on your turian agent. She had no problem relinquishing the sample, especially because she thought they could always generate the compound themselves. That was before I got my digital hands on their servers." The human buffed his nails on his rumpled shirt. "You should be getting a message from that asari tech soon. Some report she's been authorized to release."

Dakan scrutinized his friend. Report? What report?

Shrugging, Sam said, "You got me. I'm just the messenger and systems alterer." His lips formed a severe line and he rubbed the back of his neck. "And all around shit heel."

"What are you talking about?"

By all accounts, Sam and the turian agent had performed admirably. The cover up at Zenta Labs couldn't have gone better. They were just outside the Zakera Point hub's entrance when Sam pulled Dakan aside, out of the pedestrian flow and away from the docking area.

Shaking out of his friend's hold, Dakan said, "What's this about, Sam? I don't have a lot of time."

"I know. I know." Sam waved both hands at him. "Hear me out, ok?"

With an impatient flick of his mandibles, Dakan nodded and Sam launched into a well plotted speech.

"I know you have a raging soft spot for Neve and her situation's eating at you. I, ah, had more of a hand in that then I've told you."

That got Dakan's attention. He folded his arms over his chest and cocked his head. Sam couldn't meet his eye. Jamming his hands in his pockets, the human rocked on his feet while he continued.

"Yeah, well, after you made it clear you wouldn't leave that dancer alone I…started digging dirt on her."

The admission made Dakan step back. He'd figured Chellik had orchestrated the personal investigation. The entirety of Neve's history had ended up in the dedicated case files. Dakan hadn't ordered it.

"Why would you do that?"

"I didn't trust her and I didn't trust you around her. Someone had to have your back. If I found something on her I thought it might put you on guard. While I was rooting around I found your transcription feed. And your vid feed."

"You hacked my systems?"

The question came out gusty and strained like Dakan spoke after a hard sock to his un-plated torso. C-Sec officers had little expectation of privacy regarding their work terminals, but he never thought his friend would overstep that implied boundary unless Chellik or another superior officer ordered him to. The depth of Dakan's violation against Neve grew clearer as he bit back the anger building like a Stinger charge in his gut. Sam had trespassed in his work files. Dakan had trampled Neve's privacy to a gooey pulp and had wiped his feet on her trust. It was a wonder she didn't spit on him like that piece of shit in front of Huerta Memorial.

"I didn't want you getting fucked over by some cred-grubbing, glorified whore."

The fist headed for Sam's face stopped short. Dakan squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated on his rhythmic breaths until his fingers relaxed. When he opened his eyes, Sam was hunkered down, his arms blocking his face.

"That's what I thought at the time," the human said, dropping his defenses. "There was nothing like that in her history. I was wrong about her, but Chellik caught me snooping in your feed after you two had—"

Dakan held up one hand. "I get it."

Shoving his fists back into his pockets, Sam said, "Karakik had already snitched to Chellik, but if I hadn't been poking around in your feeds…I could have done damage control. That vid…Chellik wouldn't have had so much leverage on Neve." Sam's eyes slanted to the left. "I wanted you to hear it from me. So, we're cool, you know?"

This was an apology. But after Dakan's knee-jerk hostility to his friend's admission and his slandering of Neve subsided, he wasn't all that angry. Not at Sam. Himself, Chellik, Kella, Upshad, yes. Sam? No. The human acted out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. It wasn't Sam's responsibility to clean up after him.

"You don't owe me anything, Sam."

The human perked up. "Seriously?"

"Utterly. You owe Neve."

A scowl marred Sam's recently brightened expression. "Seriously?"

"Utterly."

"You're my friend. Not her."

"And I'm asking you, as my friend, to help me make this right."

Sam's lips rubbed together while he mulled over Dakan's request, then he said, "I can do that."

"Thanks. I have to—"

The blare of the station wide alarms swallowed the rest of Dakan's statement. Hands went to ears all around. The shrill claxon jittered the detective's plates.

_What the fuck?_ Sam mouthed at him.

Before Dakan fired up his omni-tool, the turian manning the exterior scanner controls abandoned his post and snagged Dakan's arm. The officer had him halfway across the central chamber when Dakan tore away from him. The detective hadn't forgotten this officer's sneering at Neve. He didn't want this turian's talons on him. The officer went for him again. Dakan shoved him and the other turian almost collided with a stream of patrolmen headed for equipping.

"What are you waiting for?" The turian officer shouted over the chaos. "Get to the equipment lockers. The Citadel's under attack!"

* * *

The alarm sounds in the middle of Vlair's terminal engagement.

This isn't a fire or a pressure loss alert. Removing the stealth drive that came with his identity kit package—the clever bit of tech conceals his presence on the extranet while he affects all the digital resources that make his new documentation and resident ID valid—from its terminal port, he pockets the device and terminates his session. A small pane materializes on the interface. It displays the terminal's occupation fee. Fifteen credits. Skway robbery. Vlair rises and tugs on the lapels of his outerskin jacket. Judging by the sounds of turmoil outside, perhaps he won't have to pay.

The explosion rocks the extranet café. Vlair slams into the cushioned side of his private booth, catches himself on the close, curvilinear walls. The door behind him retracts. He hears the screaming. Gunfire too.

Clawing from the booth, Vlair trips into the extranet café's common area. A human fleeing from her public access terminal clips his side as she rushes by, pitching him forward and prompting him into a jog. People either stampede like sheep or cower under tables like mice. He targets the café's entrance. The close confines of the common area limit his perception. To determine the opportune action, be it concealment, flight, or combat, he must first assess the situation.

Vlair sprints onto the café's patio and ducks behind a copse of box-planted hedge. Tayseri Ward, where the café is located, fancies itself a mini-Presidium. While there are no simulated skies or sparkling rivers, fountains and boxed greenery, such as Vlair crouches behind, add touches of organic beauty to the otherwise industrio-digital cityscape. Usually, he scoffs at these aesthetic trivialities. The not-so-distant stutter of rifle fire makes him thankful for the shrubbery surrounding him. The café's architectural tailor couldn't have known his or her genteel tastes would one day provide cover during an urban assault.

"Machines."

A rough whisper sets Vlair off. In his crouch, he spins on his toes, shucking his Razer VII from his shoulder holster as he whirls. Down the barrel of his pistol, he sights a man. A human man, bald and sweating, previously hidden in shade. Stubble shadows his cheeks. A stain darkens the front his green shirt. He clutches the garment at his torso which is the stain's source. Redness seeps from the seams of his fingers and pats the ground, creating a little piss puddle. Blood and body odor taints the air. Disgust contorts Vlair's face.

"I seen 'em," the man says and coughs into the hand not stanching his wounded gut. Wet, stertorous breaths quake his entire body. "The geth."

_Geth?_ Vlair lowers his pistol. _Impossible._

A C-Sec drone likely confused this human and wounded him, no doubt, when he panicked. Humans aren't the brightest species of the bunch. Not as bad as Vorcha, but not bright.

"Where did you see these 'geth?'" Vlair asks.

"Stand up, son. To the northeast."

Vlair rises until he can peek over the wedge of manicured shrubbery. A sharp tug on his jacket nearly stumbles him out of his semi-crouch. Vlair glares at the human over his shoulder.

"Not too high," the man warns. "Don't want 'em noticing us, do we?"

Catering to the human's orders, if only to keep the man from touching him again, Vlair bobs up and scans the northeast segment of the district before ducking under cover.

"You see? You see 'em?"

"I saw C-Sec officers," Vlair says. C-Sec officers swarming over benches and grounded up-carts like blue carapaced beetles. The muzzles of their Avengers flash to the report of their automatic fire.

"Look again. They got some kind of top of the top camouflage. Real fancy shit. They're using the structure buttresses for cover."

Once more, Vlair makes a visual sweep of the area the human describes. He squints at the structure buttresses, the stabilizing fins adding extra support to new construction on the Citadel. A pop from a well aimed sniper rifle strikes an invisible barrier just outside the architectural aid. The shield scrambles. Erratic kinetic currents form the loose shape of a biped clutching a weapon. Vlair's eyes widen.

_Ghost cloaks_, he thinks, his attention rooted to the alien body materializing before the line of C-Sec troops.

Colors from a busted kinetic ad animation gleam off the creature's metal limbs. Its serpentine head, mounted with a blaze-spot for a face, whips around. The assault rifle it carries fires, taking down one of the C-Sec officers before a volley of return shots crumples its machinery. The geth soldier collapses. The surrounding hardsuited troops take cover. Vlair doesn't get why until the heap of metal explodes, spraying shrapnel and white coolant over a three foot radius.

Dropping behind the hedge, Vlair sits with his back to the planter. There are geth in the Citadel. How many? Where are they coming from? An elbow jabs his arm. The reeking human sits himself amiably at the drell's side. He hisses laughter.

"What I tell you? Those quarian golems are everywhere. Not so bad this far out from the Ring. I'm making my way out to the point. Put as many C-Secs as I can between myself and those flash-faced bots. Got to get me to one of them clinics they got out there." He grimaces in obvious pain. "You should do the same and get you something better than that compact weapon."

The Razer VII angles in Vlair's hand. The weapon's reliable. When one is careful shots needn't be fired. With his unbloodied hand, the human pats the rifle strapped to his back.

"Got me this one from a dead C-Sec turian," he says. "That little pellet shooter you've got there won't help you if you end up face to face with one of the machines. Won't even cripple 'em. C-Sec's got some specialty rounds in those rifles they got. Seen 'em blast through a geth in two shots."

"Really?" Vlair eyes the human's looted weapon.

"Yessir. You should get your green mitts on one soon as the opportunity comes."

"Thank you for the advice," Vlair says, raises his pellet shooter to the human's forehead, and squeezes the trigger.

Bone shards and red clotted matter paint the hedge at the human's back. His surprised expression is comical. The man falls over. His hand drops from his gut. Blood flows freely from the wound.

Unclipping the strap across the body's chest, Vlair liberates the rifle and slings it over his own torso. From the human's pockets, he removes two backup round blocks. He also finds a handkerchief. With it, he sops the red and sticky residue from his face and outerskin suit.

The human's point plan isn't a bad one. If fighting is concentrated nearer the Presidium Ring, there are worse places to be than bunkered in a clinic on the—

_Cameron._

Thoughts of clinics lead Vlair's mind straight to his amenable hostess. She works as a nurse at Open Arms I. That's right by the junction between Zakera Ward and the Presidium Ring.

On his feet in less than a second, Vlair bounds over the boxed hedge and sprints for an abandoned up-cart not more than six paces from the café's patio. Transit terminals will be down. The only skyway traffic in the lanes belongs to marked C-Sec vehicles, their red and white spinners flashing atop their roofs. If he wants to get to Open Arms I, an up-cart's the way. The one in his sights is on its side, mass effect drives dead. With any luck, whoever left their ride also left the key behind.

Scrambling over the vehicle, Vlair squats by the driver's seat and, sure enough, the activation key imprinted with the cart's interface codes juts partway out of its port. Vlair goes to drive the key home when garbled, synthesized chatter flushes cold adrenaline into the drell's veins.

Vlair whips in the noise's direction and raises his rifle when the geth, which he can't see, opens fire. Rounds pelt the side of the cart. One grazes his arm and one, his temple. Each breaks skin. Opting for defense instead of offense, he hauls himself to the other side of the cart. He duck-walks to the vehicle's nose where he estimates is the machine's approximate location if it hasn't tailed him. Peering around the up-cart, he sends a volley of rounds into what appears to be empty space. The specialty rounds collapse the geth's ghost cloak. It's visible now, stunned and vulnerable. The shorting cloak wreaks havoc on its systems. Vlair should shoot, but he can't. The overheat meter on his Avenger enters the danger zone. Firing before the chambers cool will kill the weapon. Vlair curses. His eyes go from the meter to the geth. Which will come online first?

The geth, as it turns out.

Ghost cloak finally going dead, the construct shakes itself mobile. It pivots to face Vlair and bears down on him as he edges further behind the up-cart.

"Go down, damnit!" He shouts at the overheat meter. The geth is already above him. The thing's assault rifle swings to focus center mass. Then a big hole explodes out of the construct's chest.

Vlair catches a load of swarf and coolant to the face and chest. Fine shards of metal tear at his skin, his jacket, and suit. His secondary lids close reflexively, so he isn't blinded and his eyes aren't damaged. Hoots and hollers precede the final shots that eliminate the geth. Taking a cue from the C-Sec troops he spied previously, Vlair scrambles away from the machine. He's just out of range when it detonates.

"You ok, buddy?"

Dazed, Vlair gazes into the face of a turian C-Sec officer. White colony markings decorate his brow plates, head fringe, and mandibles. He extends his hand. Vlair takes it and lets the officer pull him to his feet.

"Fine," Vlair says. Another turian, rifle in hand, surveys their surroundings, alert for hostiles.

A faraway explosion makes them all jump. The surveying officer goads his partner. They have to push ahead, keep the geth from advancing.

The officer who helped Vlair to his feet says, "You're armed and it looks like you've requisitioned an up-cart." The turian hefts the vehicle into proper position with a heave-ho from his partner. They even get the thing started for him. "Don't stop until you reach the point. Follow civilian traffic. You've got room for passengers too." His partner growls at him and jogs ahead. The white marked turian salutes Vlair, says, "Good luck," and trots after his backup.

Setting his assault rifle on the passenger seat, Vlair buckles himself into the now hovering up-cart and strangles the steering wheel. He almost got himself killed. And for what? His teeth grind.

_Cameron._

Thinking of Cameron trapped in Open Arms I and slaughtered by geth invaders has him acting on impulse. Women are disposable. He never puts them before him despite the pleasure they offer. Yet, there's a wad of tension with her name on it lodged in his chest. He massages his sternum.

_Cameron isn't important_, he tells himself. _And there's no better place for her than a clinic._

Surely, clinics are under heavy guard. They'll need plenty of medical staff patching roughed up C-Sec and stabilizing injured civilians. Vlair punches the dashboard and plots a course in the interface's navigation display. The up-cart jets off. Vlair guns the vehicle full speed. He isn't headed to the point. The Junction is his destination. From there, the Presidium.

Cameron can take care of herself and if she can't then she can't. Images of the woman splayed on the ground, eyes wide and dead, face stippled with blood, slice into Vlair's mind and test his concentration. Whether the nurse lives or dies has no influence on his future. Dalessia Kella's continued existence does.

The up-cart's engine growls and groans under the stress Vlair inflicts upon it. It's interior mechanisms squeal as he rounds a tight corner or dodges residents fleeing for combat free districts. The asari has his drive containing the Aridi Sin documentation and every little bit of dirt he has on Kella, his one bargaining chip with C-Sec or anyone who can offer him sanctuary from NOVA and the Illuminated Primacy. The asari's on the Presidium, likely barricaded in her suite.

_Or dead already._ Vlair scowls at the thought.

If Kella's already dead, their reunion will be no fun at all. This bedlam is the perfect cover for his strike. He'll reclaim his drive and, if the asari's still breathing, he'll give his ex-mistress no small amount of well deserved payback.

All he has to do is avoid the geth and C-Sec and fight his way to the asari's suite in a heavy combat zone.

Simple.

* * *

The Sound, if you can call such a thing a sound, brings me to my knees. Hellish trumpeting shakes my cell. It shakes the whole Citadel for all I know, drowns out the alarms and mutes the battle din. My skull is a struck gong. Festering darkness fills my mind. Voices, like maggots, wriggle in the dark. In my brain. They are incomprehensible, but they _want_. They want me. Want me to move, to do.

To obey.

As suddenly as it came, the Sound cuts out. I'm left on my hands and knees. A mist of sweat coats my body, leaves me chilled and clammy. The jack-hammering at my ribs is my over-taxed heart. The poor thing. She's been through a lot. Once I calm down, I get up. Once the ringing in my ears clears, I can hear that whatever's going on outside the hub—and whatever it is it's _bad_—is getting closer.

The station alarms woke me from a deep sleep on my cell bunk. After several groggy seconds, I recognized the cacophonous tone. C-Sec runs quarterly checks of all emergency equipment and systems on the Citadel. When they do, a warning feed-cast runs for half an hour prior the alarms test. Quarterly checks are always annoying. When I interpreted the honking note, I thought it was just another systems test. Then a burst of thunder made the ground quake. Then another. I asked myself, "Were those explosions?" The next roll of thunder and minor tremor solidified the notion in my mind.

Shouts and barked commands echoed in neighboring chambers. I put my ear to the rear wall of my cell, couldn't interpret any of the chatter. A pair of armed officers, a salarian and the blond woman who'd assisted with my physical during processing, filed down holding cell row. They performed visual checks of the occupied pens. I came to the front wall of my cell and slapped both hands against the clear versaplast.

"Hey," I called and _thung-thung_ went my hands on the versaplast. "What's going on? Hey! Answer me!"

They didn't and they either left the hall or moved too far forward for me to see. Despite being ignored, I carried on with my banging and shouting until I banged my hands stinging and numb and I shouted myself hoarse. Amid the intermittent blasts I was sure were explosions, and the muffled reports I was certain were weapons fire, and the demonic Sound I was confident I hadn't the first clue what it was, no one answered my frantic calls. No one came.

They came now.

The blond woman backs down the hall, pistol drawn. I swallow. She's got a lethal weapon, not a Stinger. Whatever she targets means to kill her. And a lot of other people, I imagine. Squinting, she pops off a few rounds. I edge to the leftmost side of my cell and smoosh my check against the window wall. As far as I can see down the row there's nothing. No. Wait. There's a shimmer in the air like heat waves that quickly dissipate. The female officer fires where the shimmer used to be. Discharged rounds strike the wall, leaving small craters and scorch marks behind. Maybe we're seeing things.

Multiple impacts hammer the officer's kinetic shields. The close range barrage knocks her back. She gets off a few more shots before her shields go down. Her rounds disrupt whatever conceals the thing in the corridor. It's unmasked. I step away from the wall. Internally, I cringe from the creature. My instincts scream, _hide!_ But there's no where to hide in the cell.

There's a machine in the hall. A humanoid robot. Twists of wire and molded versaplast form musculature over a metal skeleton. Tubes beaded with condensate loop from its back. Its head is a question mark dotted with a bright light on the wrong end. Three fingered hands grip the assault rifle it wields. Two toed feet support its legs and body and its knees bend the wrong way for a human. Not for a quarian, though. Even its flashlight face is reminiscent of the mouth pieces in the alien's enviro-suits. Is this a geth? It appears immobilized by its malfunctioning shields. The officer defending the row takes advantage of this.

The blond woman charges the geth. She grabs it by one of the articulated plates forming its crescent shaped head, jams her pistol into its face light, and empties a load of rounds down its proverbial throat. I can't help it. Jumping up and down, I pump a fist into the air and cheer for team human. My celebration is premature.

Parts and pieces break away from the geth's head. Its face light hangs from a nerve-like tangle of wires, but it's still functional. One of its arms swings and swats the officer aside. While she's recovering, that same arm shoots out and, faster than I can follow, it has her pinned by her face to the clear wall of my cell. The officer claws at the fingers caging her head. She kicks, unable to connect with its body. The geth squeezes. Since she's pressed to my cell wall, I can hear her strangled screaming. I get dizzy. My belly gets heavy as I sicken and my mouth waters.

The officer's skull caves in the geth's fist. Sounds like someone pops a big bag of chips. She keeps screaming. I tear at the sides of my head, plug my ears, but I can't blot out the sound. Flesh and blood like gorey clay extrudes through the machine's fingers. All I know is the screaming stops because I can't see anymore. Everything's black. My brain's pulled the plug on what it knows I can't handle. I blink and blink and rub my eyes and cigarette burns of light and color sear the darkness.

A headless doll that used to be the blond officer slumps on the ground before my cell, her back to the clear wall. Ragged flaps of skin peel away from her spurting neck like the petals of a revolting flower. Hair clings to some of it. Her skull is shattered pottery. Uprooted nerves twitch and glisten in the broken bowl. A red, paint ball splatter speckled with bits of matter marks the wall where her head used to be. Rust colored streaks trail to the stump of her neck. The geth stands over her. Slick pulp drops from its outstretched fist. My breath comes hard and fast and my brain feels fizzy. I start laughing so hard it hurts and I'm distantly aware of the hot trickle dribbling down my leg. The geth knows I'm in here. It points its rifle at my cell.

An impact plows a groove in the machine's shoulder. Another blows out part of its torso. Another and another and another shatter its knees. The geth is swinging around to face its attacker when a final shot disintegrates the last of its head. A jumble of metal parts collapses near the jerking corpse propped on the clear wall. My laughter turns genuine instead of hysterical and then I'm screaming at the thing, running up to the cell wall and kicking the versaplast, wishing I could smash the pile of metal into worthless scrap.

While I'm howling, light shafts from the debris-formerly-geth. I shut my eyes against it. A concussive blast flings me backward. I hit my cell's rear wall, then the floor, with a meaty whallop. The air left in me is too thin to breathe. Objects pelt me, scratch my arms and face, bang me up. The sound of the explosion seems to follow the actual event. I'm left deaf for a minor eternity and my ears are ringing again. I uncurl from my defensive ball when all I hear are the shouts of someone with dual vocals.

A turian enters the corridor. A C-Sec officer. Not Dakan. My cell wall has a big, jagged hole in it. The geth has been vaporized in the detonation and there's very little left of the blond officer.

"Fuck," the turian says, taking in the carnage. His rifle droops in his grasp.

The biotic dampener circling my left wrist sparks. Smoke curls from it. Its mate on the right starts acting up too. The versaplast casing heats against my skin. Jumping up, I yank on the tech. The blast must have damaged them. When the dampener collaring my neck overheats, I freak out.

"Help me." I run for the turian who points his gun at me.

"Back up. Stay in your cell."

"Please." I twist the dampener at my throat. My skin's burning.

The rifle thrusts in my direction. "I said: Back. Up."

Shimmering to the turian's right makes me scream.

"Look out!"

Whirling, the turian punches his right arm forwards. From a bulky gauntlet attached to his armored wrist, a kinetic bolt discharges. Crippling energy drops the monstrous geth's invisibility shields and halts the thing. This one's a colossus. It's shaped the same as the smaller version, but it's bulkier and two upright components jut from its shoulders.

"Are those fucking rocket launchers?" I scream.

The turian's too busy wailing on the machine to listen to me. Auto-fire does some damage, but not enough. The giant geth starts moving. As terror builds inside me, something else does too. A familiar resonance invades my body. My arms and legs tingle. The little hairs covering my skin rise. A hatch on one of the colossus' shoulder components wings open.

"Down!"

The turian dives into my cell, tackles me as what sounds like a jet screams overhead. A second impact wave blows us apart. I'm showered with debris and up in time to see the turian's brains become a Pollock painting on my cell's left wall. The hardsuited body that's left spasms, arms and legs flailing like a clumsy puppet. The geth colossus clicks and buzzes and chirps in an alien chorus. It observes me, I think. Its face bulb spotlights me. The rocket it fired made an opening into the adjoining cell, but where can I go from there? I don't have to consider my options long.

The geth takes its shot. My arms go up. I scream and the dark energy pent up inside me, along with all my fear, explodes into my cell. Intense pressure sucks at my pores. At the end, I'm empty, exhausted…and unharmed.

The giant geth is on the floor. Sparks jump from its body like shooting stars. I cringe, bracing for a detonation which doesn't occur. Footsteps at my back make me turn. A quarian woman climbs over the rubble between her cell and mine. A tinny voice projects from the speaker in her enviro-suit's lighted mouth piece.

"What are you waiting for? Get their guns."


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43: Everytime You Go Away You Take A Piece Of Me With You**

The quarian woman steps over the turian officer's corpse like another bit of rubble. She kneels next to the felled geth colossus, pokes and prods its limbs.

"That biotic blast really did a number on this one," she says. Casting about, she lays a hand on a sharp twist of shrapnel from the detonated geth. She tests its flexibility, nods, and jams the tool into the colossus' head. The crude implement goes this way and that and the massive geth's head case hinges open.

While the quarian's tinkered, I've scooted to the back of my cell. I draw my knees to my chest and hold on for dear life. I rock, trying to keep the gruesome deaths of the turian and human officer out of my mind without success. As a distraction, I monitor the hall for tell-tale shimmers, eye so wide they dry out. I don't want to close them. When I do, I see what the geth did to that woman. I utter a strangled cry at the same time the quarian woman extracts an object from the big geth's head.

"What are you doing?" I ask. It's a wonder the she understands the question with the way my voice shakes.

"Removing the explosive from its cerebral plug." Another piece comes away in her hand. "And the detonator." Both components disappear into her enviro-suit. She continues rummaging in the geth's head.

"Now what are you doing?"

"Nevermind what I'm doing. Get that turian's rifle."

I curl up tighter at the quarian's suggestion. Touch a headless body? Loot a corpse? No, no, no, no, no.

No.

"I'm not stealing from an officer who gave his life for mine."

The quarian woman's arms go slack at her sides. She tilts her head at me. The enviro-suit's shielded helmet obscures her face, but I feel the judgey vibes squiggling out of her.

"Don't pretend with me," she says. "I see you. There's steel."

"I can't—"

"Do you want to survive?"

I gaze at her. Either my expression or my eyes communicate my response because I don't say a word, but the quarian speaks again.

"Then pick up that gun."

The command is a sharp smack. It shocks me out of my revulsion and stupor. The turian's dead. The human woman's dead. That's not my fault. Sitting here like a target won't bring them back. They don't need gear anymore. I do. That justification doesn't get me out of touching a dead body. My stomach performs a sickening turn when I attempt to wrap my head around that.

_Take the first step, Neve_, I tell myself. _Then the hard part's over._

Forcing myself away from the rear wall, I crawl to the turian. Blue blood covers the floor. I avoid the worst of the mess, but some of it gets on my knees and hands. I'll have to remember not to touch my eyes or mouth or any scratches I might get. Turian fluids are toxic to humans. I'm already sick enough with all I've witnessed.

I lean over the body and, with a silent one-two-three, swipe at the rifle. I mean to knock the gun from the turian's grasp. The weapon's heavier than I calculate. I bruise the tips of my fingers and the rifle stays lodged in one of the turian's hands. No way around this.

A short kneel-walk to the other side of the body places me in front of the weapon. I bare my teeth in a grimace as I tug at the gun and a keening, disgusted sound sings from my throat. The turian's body is stiff. He has a literal death grip on the rifle. I shut my eyes and groan because I know what I have to do.

Without opening my eyes, I trail my hand along the weapon to the turian's curled thumb. Before today, I'd never touched a dead body. Grandma had been cremated and I'd paid my last respects at a distance. Lena Cezetti, my mom, hadn't shown up to her own mother's funeral. Anger steams up at the memory. Channeling that aggression, I push through my disgust. I peel back each of the turian's fingers and disentangle the gun from his grasp. The task is complete. I drop back onto my butt and study the unfamiliar device.

"I have no idea how to use one of these," I say to myself.

The quarian woman responds to my offhand comment. "See geth. Pull trigger. Easy."

When she notices me poking at something that oughtn't be poked, she runs over the rifle's basic components and features. The round block set in one of the weapon's chambers ensures I'll never run out of ammo.

"And it's a specialty block," the quarian woman says. "Tungsten rounds. Very effective on geth. The one thing you'll need to keep an eye on is the overheat meter."

I find the meter display near the rifle's sight. If I fire too much too quickly, the gun overheats. The meter lets me know when I've pushed the machine to its limit.

"An alarm will go off too," the quarian woman says. "When you hear it, stop shooting. Oh, and," laughter gusts from her lighted mouthpiece, creating static, "this isn't Shadow Matter. You can't fight geth in that pretty gown. Come here." She crooks a finger at me.

Standing, I heft the rifle in both hands, hug it like a security blanket, and attend the quarian woman's summons.

"So, you do remember me," I say as she kneels at my feet, scrap metal in hand. She gathers the long hem of my gown and slices the material with the sharp shrapnel.

Shadow Matter is where I first encountered this quarian. The beating of her step-brother sparked a riot at the club I narrowly escaped with Dakan's aid. The turian's connections in C-Sec got me out of an arrest. The quarian who shears the lower half of my dress wasn't so fortunate. She and Shia, who protected us with a massive biotic shield, got collared in the aftermath of the riot. Shia's influential mother sent an emissary to get her daughter out of custody. The quarian woman had no such influence or contacts on the Citadel. She stayed locked up.

"I remember you," she says, head bowed over her work. "Don't remember those biotics. Not from you."

"Those are new."

The quarian's face mask cants upwards. Her eyes and some of her nose are the only visible features from the illuminated interior of her suit. I think the look she gives me is skeptical.

"I don't want to know," she says.

"We don't have time, anyway."

That story's far too long and the ominous sounds of weapons fire and the ubiquitous blare of the station alarms are a constant reminder of the danger that could shimmer down the corridor at any second. The quarian woman completes a circuit of my gown. She tosses aside a large clump of fine lace. The turian's body strikes her interest. Bringing her scrap tool with her, she investigates the corpse. Setting the rifle on the ground, I grab the edge of the discarded lace and sponge my calves, inner thighs, and between my legs. The quarian woman has her back to me.

"What's your name?" I ask, casting away the soiled material.

"Zenna Larati vas Nerai."

Zenna doesn't ask for my name. I offer it anyhow.

"I'm Neve."

A grunt communicates her acknowledgement. I'm about to prod her for further conversation when the dampener braceleting my neck snaps and sparks again. With a little shriek, I slap at the device. It heats. The sensation isn't painful, nothing like the burning at my wrists and throat with all the electrical interference from the geth's detonation and the turian officer's kinetic attack on the colossus. It doesn't hurt, but I don't want to wear malfunctioning equipment. Zenna de-explosived the giant geth with a shard of metal. Surely, she can get these shackles off.

"Is there anyway you can help with these?" I ask.

The quarian woman already faces me, likely roused from her picking at the turian by my panic. "Yeah." She pushes herself upright, jiggling something in her palm she pockets in her enviro-suit. "Those 'new' biotics of yours will be useful."

The words "I don't know thing one about biotics" almost leave my mouth. I seal my lips shut at the first squeak of sound and they stay that way. That bit of information is on a need to know basis. Zenna doesn't need to know. She needs to get me out of these scrambled dampeners. She does.

The collar comes off first. The piece of geth Zenna holds scratches at the versaplast casing. Its point catches in the joining mechanism, pops it. My neck is unfettered, then my arms, then my ankles.

While Zenna pries open the final dampener around my left ankle, I ask, "What did you lift off that turian?"

"His shield generator." Zenna inspects the device she's removed from my body. Finding nothing worthwhile, she heaps it atop the others.

Red marks encircle my wrists. I rub the tender, singed skin. A small blister bubbles on my right wrist. It bursts under my light touch, stings. Wincing, I trail my fingers up my arm. Ever since the dampeners shorted, energy has thrummed through my limbs and resonated in my core. Power roils just below my skin. It vibrates against my fingertips. Without a disorienting cocktail of drugs in my system, the force isn't unmanageable. A wave of my arm won't blast anyone next to me into the neighboring system. How to command this power eludes me. Testing a theory, I tense. Muscles in my arms and core twang with an abundance of energy. Slowly, I release my stance and the kinetic buildup dissipates harmlessly into space. I repeat the exercise three more times with the same results. Biotic draw is mastered.

"You could use one," Zenna says, pulling me out of my preoccupation.

"One what?"

"Shield generator. Shoes too." The quarian woman flings a hand at the big hole in the clear versaplast. "That officer in the hall should be a close fit."

No. That's my limit. Absolutely not. I say so as I retrieve my rifle.

An irritated sigh rushes from Zenna's mouthpiece. "You're going to run around a warzone in paper booties? An injured target is an easy mark. The geth will take you down like that." She snaps her fingers. When I don't budge she shakes her head. "You want to risk impaling your foot on some metal while we're fleeing killer robots? Be my guest."

The cold logic makes me tremble. I do need shoes and a shield generator. I don't want to touch or acknowledge the mangled body in the hall. That could easily be me. Having that image in my head while we escape will make me a liability.

Muttering curses through pursed lips, I kick off the hospital-style booties assigned to me during processing. I pad out of the cell, checking up and down the corridor for geth-shimmer. The automatic doors at the end of holding cell row are sealed. I remain alert for a while, my ears and eyes ultra sensitive to sights and sounds. There's no synthesized chatter and nothing wavers the air. I'm in the clear.

The blond officer's boots intrude onto my field of vision. With my eyes slanted towards the floor, I'm careful to avoid the awful sight of the woman's upper half. If I pretend these are just boots fitted to a mannequin's legs, I can do this. My focus is targeted at the soles of the shoes as I go down to my knees and set aside my rifle.

Clips secure the boots to the officer's hardsuit. They click when I flip them back. I tug at the right boot which jerks the woman's whole body forward. Heaving, I twist away from the body, brace my hands on the floor until the coughing and sick dread pass. I'll have to stabilize the officer's torso while I remove her shoes unless I want her flopping into my lap. Stomach settled, I take a breath, and start working again faster than I can think, faster than revulsion can overtake me. One hand pushes the officer's middle against the wall while the other fights with her boot. I get it off and its mate. The woman's sobrane clad legs are spindly and pitiful divorced from their armor. Now the shield generator.

The kinetic projector should be somewhere around the officer's torso. I already have my hand there, so I feel around, head angled sharply away. My fingers don't locate a recognizable shape. I have to look. I conduct a mental countdown.

_Three, two, one!_

My head whips around, hair slapping my nose and cheeks. I scan the lower portion of the officer's hardsuit, ignoring how her arms hang limp and how a shank of blood matted hair brushes her armored chest. The shield generator is set under her breast plate. Little versaplast teeth, like a jewel's setting, fix the device in place. I fumble for a release latch. There isn't one as far as I can tell, but the generator rattles in the hollow where it rests. Disabling one or two of the setting teeth should let me slide the device free.

I pick at the teeth. Dull, versaplast points spear under my short nails. This is useless. I peer into my abandoned cell. Zenna sits cross legged near the opening. She passes the turian's generator from hand to hand, prodding at finer points of the mechanism. A blue, blinking light flickers on its surface. The piece of metal she used to remove the dampeners and perform surgery on the geth colossus rests near her hip.

"Zenna, can I use that?" I point at the shard when she acknowledges me. As a reply, she lobs the implement my way.

I inflict the geth shard on the shield generator setting. One of the versaplast teeth comes up a little. Not enough to loose the generator. Adjusting the tool so it sits under another of the setting's teeth, I use more torque, grunting when I push down on the shard. The force I wield is a bit too forceful.

The teeth securing the shield generator snap off and catapult across the corridor. The kinetic projector tumbles from its hollow and clatters between the officer's outstretched legs. I go for it at the same time the blond woman's upper half topples. I latch onto the generator. My face nearly collides with the officer's ruined skull. Clutching my prize, I kick and flail from the corpse, eyelids shuttering the sight of it from my vision. The wall halts my progress. I slam into it, cling to its smooth surface as juices in my stomach gurgle and belch. I drop the shield generator when I reach for my mouth.

"I think I'm going to puke," I say then retch. Burning fluid comes up my throat. It scorches the inside of my nose.

"Good. Puke," Zenna says and the control I have over my body breaks.

A thin stream of yellow liquid dribbles from my lips. It leaves my mouth acidic and foul tasting. My stomach convulses around its meager contents and the next time I heave, nothing comes up.

"Confront it now," Zenna calls from the cell. "Get it all out. There'll be more like her and the turian outside. Worse."

There's nothing left in me to purge, but Zenna's comment rekindles my nausea.

_There'll be more like her and the turian outside._

Dakan.

Where is he? Is he like the turian officer in…

My jaw, my entire body, clenches at the thought as though trying to ward it off, keep it out. An electric hum draws my attention cellward. Energy forms a hollow container around Zenna then disappears. The shield is still there even though I can't see it. I have to prepare too.

The hardsuit boots bruise my legs. The armor is hard both inside and out and there's no sobrane suit cushioning my skin. I touch the controls on the shield generator. Nothing happens. I whack it a few times. While I'm shaking it, Zenna comes to me and stills my hand.

"What are you doing?" She asks.

"It won't turn on." I hand over the generator. Zenna touches one place and another, hands the item back to me.

"That's because it's busted."

"Can you fix it?"

"Not with tools that crude." She indicates the piece of metal. "But you have your biotics."

I fidget. "I'm not very skilled."

Clapping me on the back, Zenna stoops and picks up my rifle. She shoves the weapon into my arms, says, "No better time to improve than a firefight."


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44: Hit Me Baby, One More Time!**

In a room filled with dozens of armed C-Sec officers who all think I'm a murderous race traitor, my natural response is _don't let them see you_.

"We can't stay here," Zenna pulls at my arm. We hunker behind an overturned desk in the hub's central chamber. From this vantage, we've scouted the room's activity. I'm pro hiding here and letting C-Sec handle the rest of the geth on the Citadel. Zenna disagrees.

"Why not?"

The quarian woman scoots behind me and shoves. I go floppy on her and become dead weight.

"Stop being a baby," Zenna says. "If we stay here they'll lock us back up."

"But the geth."

C-Sec will lock us up. Geth will kill us. With perfect timing, one of the machines infiltrates the hub, demonstrating how fatal a solitary geth can be.

A shimmering sphere drops from the ceiling and lands amidst the confusion of deploying officers and civilians fleeing the violence. Tiles crater where the shielded geth drops. A salarian is caught beneath it. He wails as the heavy machine's bulk crushes his left leg. An invisible limb knocks the alien aside and a couple of human men haul him out of danger. The crowd forms a circle of space around the drop zone like oil reacting to a dollop of dish soap.

"Clear the civilians," an obviously in charge turian hollers. "Form a perimeter around the geth. Half fire, half shields." A string of position coordinates and diameter specs follows the command.

C-Sec officers advance and create a ring around the drop site where the shimmering sphere reorganizes into a recognizable shape. The troops with their backs to the hub's entrance generate biotic shields at the turian commander's order. Officers on the opposite side of the circle open fire. A hail of rounds shorts the geth's invisibility shield. Defensive biotics neutralize any fire that flies wide of the synthetic target. The first round that connects with the unshielded geth hollows a large chunk of its torso. I'm ready to cheer because I think the robot's about to bite it. Then the geth retaliates.

It snaps into the compact shape it adopted when it dropped into the central chamber, dodging the final burst of incoming fire. A lens of yellow-orange light materializes before the geth. Interlocked, octagonal shapes pattern the brilliant apparatus. C-Sec looses another volley of rounds. The light dispels them. Zenna and I duck behind the overturned desk as tungsten bits tear at our cover. Versaplast debris rains on our arm-sheltered heads.

"Stationary kinetic barrier," Zenna says and sidles to the desk's edge. She peeks around it. "We have to go. Get over here."

Walking on my knees, I position myself beside her and peer over her shoulder.

Shielded by the kinetic barrier, the geth ignores C-Sec's incoming fire and aims its own rifle at the officers generating biotic defense, unleashing an endless spray of destruction.

The strength of an organic mass effect shield is dependent on the strength of the biotic. The most talented, like Shia, unfold dark energy fields capable of withstanding a constant battery of high velocity rounds. The officers protecting civilians from stray weapons fire aren't that strong. Their pooled power and stamina holds against the few rounds that miss the geth, but crumble under the synthetic's close range assault. A turian at the end of the line wears out first. He wilts, too exhausted to defend himself when the geth angles its attack at this new weak point.

The turian's kinetic shield—the generator is fitted in a slot in his armor at his lower torso—protects him from the geth's initial blasts. The energy shell quickly depletes. A salarian next to the drained turian widens the breadth of his reach, spreading his biotic field's capacity. The gesture blankets the turian in a wash of energy, but also weakens the salarian's overall defenses. Their shields, generated from their bodies and gear, flicker and fade. The salarian's face twists as he tries to channel more power into his biotic display and fails.

The geth makes short work of them.

They're bloodied and on the ground in half a blink. Frantic orders from the turian commander have the offensive line adjusting their position. Troops to the left and right break away while those at the center of the former circle continue hammering rounds into the geth's stationary armor. The kinetic shield comes down octagonal segment by octagonal segment. Not fast enough to save more lives on the biotic line. Four officers remain on dark energy detail out of the former nine. Bodies, some dead and some twitching with faltering life, litter the floor. The rest of the biotic troops stand their ground. They won't hold up if the armed officers don't eliminate the geth soon.

"Neve," Zenna says over her shoulder. "Take the synthetic down."

I gape at the back of the quarian woman's kerchiefed head. "How?"

Zenna whirls around. "We've got a sightline on it." She angles her palm on trajectory with the geth. "One or two shots ought to do the job."

I follow the line of her hand. We do have a clear path to the geth. The machine's occupied with the C-Sec battalion. It won't see me if I lean out of cover.

Shifting from a kneel to a crouch, I level the rifle in my hands and creep out from behind the desk, one eye already locked on the sight and finger already squeezing the trigger. Before I pop off a single round, I'm dragged behind the desk and laid out on my back, rifle pointed at the ceiling.

"What are you doing?" Zenna asks.

"What are _you_ doing?" I counter. "You said 'take it down.'"

"Not with the damn rifle. You'll give new meaning to the term friendly fire. Use your biotics."

"I told you I'm not that great."

"You don't have to be. Knock the geth off balance. Give C-Sec a chance to destroy it before its reinforcements arrive. That'll give us an escape window while they're regrouping."

"How do you know it's got reinforcements?"

"It's geth," Zenna says like that's sufficient, then adds, "geth are always stronger in numbers. They operate by consensus."

"Consensus?"

"Not important right now. Here." Zenna takes my rifle and leans it against the underside of the desk and nudges me where she used to crouch. She assumes my old fallback position. "Hit it with a biotic burst. I'll cover you."

"Why don't you just shoot it now?"

"Because those armed officers over there might think we're hostiles and gun us down before they figure otherwise."

Beyond the geth, the reorganized offensive line assembles. Shooting at the synthetic might seem like we're shooting at them, especially if we miss and clip their shields.

"Geth use projectiles not biotics," Zenna explains. "C-Sec won't confuse us with the enemy if you use dark energy. If it doesn't go down on your first shot, I'll make sure it doesn't kill you while you charge a second."

"I'm feeling so good about this plan."

"Make with the light show already." Zenna targets the geth with her rifle and anticipates my move.

Grumbling, I concentrate on the machine and on the node of power pulsing deep in my belly. Time slows. The synthetic's rifle flashes and a tiny projectile floats from the end of the muzzle, creeps through the air. Civilians being escorted to cover by noncombatant C-Sec officers freeze in place. I sense the shape of the kinetic seed planted in my gut. It's small; a kernel. Not enough to do what I have to do. Tensing my limbs and torso, I initiate biotic draw.

Energy channeled through my arms and legs feeds the mote of power within me. The force compounds until I'm pregnant with it, my whole body harmonized. Relaxing this stance will release the buildup like a hiss of air from a microscopic puncture in a balloon. That's not what I want. Somehow, I've got to convert this pressure inside me into a kinetic missile. I've done it before, but always on instinct or when my back's been against a wall. The one time I controlled my power on command was with Dakan's coaching. In my mind, I time travel to the gala. I place myself in the turian detective's arms and conjure the visualization technique he created off the cuff.

Rhythm.

Dakan fixated me on the flow of my rampaging biotics. The energy had a distinctive percussion then and it has one now. I meld into its beat. My body sways with its current. Isolating muscles in my core and my right arm, I conduct power from the reactor heating my insides to the palm of my hand. Miniature lightning bolts zig-zag from my fingertips. I clench my fist and stanch the escaping energy. This isn't right. How can I keep the released force contained in my palm while I siphon more power to it? I take another mental history trip, this time much further back than a few weeks.

Growing up on a tight budget with my grandma meant we did a lot of scratch cooking. A lot of meal stretching. One of the cheapest and artificially nutritious ingredients we could afford was beef flavored prosthein. In the consumerplex two blocks from our single box, we'd hold out our government assigned, refillable containers and wait while the constitution vendor filled them up. Synthetic meat extruded from a spigot like frozen yogurt. After receiving our ration, we'd take a long trip on the air train out of the city to a woman who owned a real bakery. We never bought her expensive confectionary. We bought lard and stale breadcrumbs.

Grandma knew all the tricks to make a diet of mostly synthetic nutrition tasty. Mixing the prosthein with lard added flavor. The breadcrumbs sprinkled in stretched the number of servings portioned from our individual rations. On parchment, I glopped wads of the mixture and rolled the formless ingredients into spheres. Lard coated my fingers with thick, oily gunk. The spheres I made became meatballs or were flattened into patties.

It's the rolling that's important, the transmutation of raw substance into shape.

Forming my hand around a non-existent glob of prosthein, I manifest the weight of the mixture into my hand, unaware that I shunt energy to my palm until it warms and tingles my skin. I gasp at the luminescent ball I cup. The delicate construct almost bursts when my concentration falters. With a slash of my head, I banish self-doubt and move my hand as I have been, pantomiming the sculpture of the prosthein. Reliving the memory lends this nebulous power of mine a concrete structure upon which I shape what I need.

The sphere I tend is small. As my hand circles, I fuel it with more and more power. It grows and grows and grows so large that it becomes unwieldy, making my arm kick. That means it's ready.

The scene hasn't changed drastically since I began my biotic exercise. As I lift my head and draw back my arm, time cycles to its normal speed. I lock onto a direct angle with the geth and pitch the kinetic sphere like I'd skip a stone across a lake. The shimmering ball wings from my grasp. I close my fist to prevent any more power from discharging while I monitor my projectile.

Frustration has me tense. I think I messed up. The biotic cannonball, which should fly right at the geth, arcs downward. When it hits the floor, a shaft of explosive light erupts from the impact site. I sag. I've failed. Then the second shaft ignites and I'm dumbfounded.

I squint along the trajectory I plotted and smile an open-mouthed smile. There's the sphere! The first impact didn't expend all its power. It skims along the floor. Each time it touches the tile it detonates, depleting the kinetic projectile's power as it goes. The chain reaction blasts rock and tumble C-Sec officers within their range. No one's in the sphere's direct path except the geth. The pair collides.

Blinding radiance consumes and tosses the geth like a bit of debris. Officers and civilians dive out of the synthetic's path. Some unfold personal biotic shields for temporary shelter. Crashing into the ground, the geth falls inches short of the wall in a jumble of skeletal parts. Though it sparks and its synthesized chatter sounds stuttered and broken, it attempts to stand, grasping for the rifle it dropped somewhere along the way. C-Sec puts a swift halt to its remobilization. They gun the metal down. There are no civilians they might injure. Shots cease when the geth's twitched its last twitch.

"Get away from it!" The turian commander shouts, shoving a fleeing asari and the human toddler accompanying her behind him. "It's gonna blow. Get everyone back! Far as you can!"

All the organics clear a radius around the geth. Officers carry the wounded to safety. When the geth detonates, everyone is out of range. A collective sigh gusts from the hub's inhabitants. There's laughter, sparse applause.

"Decent shockwave," Zenna says near my ear, making me jump. I gaze into her face mask after she duck-walks next to me. "And you said you weren't skilled." She claps my shoulder. I study my hand, curling my fingers out and in, astonished. Astonished and exhausted.

Arms and legs pull at my body like tubes of wet concrete. A groggy slept-too-long—or not enough—headache blurs my vision. I shake it off. Even my head is heavy; an overripe bud on an unstable stem. My stomach snaps and gurgles.

"Let's go." Zenna rises from our hideout after surveying the scene for several seconds.

Slapping a hand on my rifle, I grip the weapon and stagger to my feet, skidding backward when my balance slips. Zenna clutches the V-neck lapels of my gown so I don't go over.

"I don't know that I can."

Body weight drags me down. My legs mutiny, but I catch the desk while I get my extremities back in line.

"We can't stay here." The quarian woman inclines her head like she has more to say. A cry from a salarian officer preempts her.

"Geth!"

All eyes dart to the amphibious alien who points aloft.

"They're coming through the ducts!"

Reluctantly, I turn my eyes upward. The ceiling is a shimmering blanket of shielded, swarming geth. A booster shot of cold, potent adrenaline has me wired and ready to bolt. I half-lurch towards the exit then notice the activity around me.

C-Sec forces are banged and bloodied from their encounter with a lone geth. Troops are divvied between civilian herding and care, offense, and biotic defense. Citadel Security manning this hub is abysmally low on defense. They could use help. I could give them that. Zenna yanks on the crook of my elbow. She propels me from cover and through the pell-mell of the scrambling crowd before I protest. Outside, on Zakera Point's viewing deck, I rip from her grasp.

"They're going to die in there!"

Striding in the hub's direction, I shake Zenna's repeated attempts at recapture. Gunfire, the patter of rounds off the fireproof gazing window dominating the viewing deck, drives us to new cover. Diving onto the tile, we crawl behind one of the many benches stationed on the deck.

"You want to die in there with them?" Zenna asks as we hunch lower to the ground. "There's nothing else you'd rather give your life for?"

I take a good gander around and think about that.

Deep space yawns behind Zakera Point's gazing window. The Serpent Nebula streaks the black, star marked void with hazy purples and foggy whites. Ships pepper the pastel misted backdrop. Alliance frigates and turian cruisers. Kinetic artillery _blip-blip-blips_ from their cannons and heavy guns. Their target isn't visible from our position, but the ships call to mind several things, people, for which I'd gladly trade my life. Roger and Allegra. Their son. Shia, but she's safe on Thessia. Dakan, though I can't believe it. And me.

I can't save my friends. I don't know where any of them are. The space around my heart shrinks when I think any of them might be dead. Roger and Dakan are undoubtedly on the front lines. Allegra and little Roger are hopefully in a well protected civilian shelter. What about me? Where am I headed?

"The Presidium," I blurt. "I have to get there."

"That's towards heavy combat."

"That's where I'm going. There might be information there that can clear my name. Without that I may as well be dead."

I'd rather be living the next life than dying behind bars. The realization gives me a sense of bravery I didn't know I possessed.

Assessing me for a beat, Zenna says, "I'll get you there."

The quarian woman's statement puts me at a loss. When I finish stuttering my surprise, I ask, "Why?"

Collapsing her rifle, Zenna kneels and attaches the weapon to the back of her enviro-suit. She sets her hands on her thighs.

"I told you when you brought me word of Joliil that I would repay the favor if I got the chance."

Escorting me to the heart of the synthetic versus organic battle is a steep price for the information I gave her. I'm speechless as she tests the rifle at her back, drawing and holstering it in swift and fluid motions. She tells me I don't have the right equipment to secure my weapon in such an efficient manner, but there should be a strap in one of the rifle's compartments I can use to sling the weapon across my front. The rest of what she conveys I interpret as a buzzing hum. The only thing I understand is that she's going to help me. I clasp her upper arm in the middle of her instructions.

"Thank you, Zenna."

"Save your thanks," the quarian woman says. "We're not there yet."


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45: We're Running Just As Fast As We Can**

I sneeze for the tenth time. Grime spumes in front of my face with the breath I expel. Dust carpets the ducts through which we crawl. Zenna leads. Her mouthpiece bulb illuminates our shadowed path.

"Didn't that salarian say the geth are using the ducts?" I ask.

"Yes." Zenna's harsh whisper cuts over my sniffling. "Now would you shut it so we don't draw them to us?"

My jaw snaps shut and I'm immediately ultra aware of the sounds around us. Our bodies scrape along the metal floor. Sometimes a knee or foot or weapon gongs against the walls or ceiling as we frog-crawl down the narrow passage. Usually, it's my limbs and rifle doing the banging. On stage, I'm graceful. In here, I'm gangly and awkward. Moving this way, belly and chest skimming the floor, bent arms and legs hauling us along, isn't natural for me. Zenna's movements don't stir the slightest whisper. She's a lizard slithering over familiar terrain. Whenever I bump the walls or roof or sneeze, the quarian woman pauses. After prolonged silence, we continue. If I could collapse this cumbersome rifle and stow it like Zenna's weapon, I wouldn't make half the noise I am.

Before we vacated Zakera Point's viewing deck, Zenna helped me configure the rifle to my back. A canvas strap, rolled and tucked into a small compartment, clipped to the butt and body of the weapon. The strap crossed diagonally over my chest. Running bounced the gun against my back, bruising my spine and shoulder blades. The strap cut into my bare skin, chafing and leaving red marks. The pain and extra weight of the rifle and hardsuit boots slowed me down. I became a hazard when we encountered pockets of combat. Zenna diverted us off the central avenues and down splinter alleys where unscrupulous individuals already looted abandoned, and not so abandoned, res-plexes. I thought of my little cupboard on Shalta Ward. Anyone looting that place was screwed. I'd already sold all my valuables to make my mom's payment. I observed a moment of silence for what jewelry and keepsakes from grandma and Allan I'd bartered for my mother's well being until Zenna shoved me into a dusty old vent in one of the res-plex's walls.

Anywhere on the Citadel was reachable by ducts and maintenance passages, Zenna informed me. The going would be slow, but there would be less danger and we could hear the geth scuttling in the ducts instead of being taken by surprise in the open.

I collapse in the passage. Dirt grates against my cheek. Zenna is a few feet ahead before she realizes I've stopped. Light from her mouthpiece spotlights my face when she glances over her shoulder. Her rubbery enviro-suit squeaks against the metal paneling as she back tracks.

"What's wrong?" She whispers.

My question comes out way more whiney than I intend. "Are we there yet?"

Duct travel might be less hazardous but it's also a physical strain. All my already exhausted muscles protest at further use.

Static crackles over Zenna's mouthpiece. I've been in her company long enough to interpret her exasperated sighs.

"Would you…" The quarian woman's pause extends long enough for my heart rate to kick up.

"What is it?"

A flapping hand signals my silence. Two tics later, I hear it. Something's bumping about in this duct system with us. My body coils as though sheer will on my part can make me smaller, unnoticeable. I hold my breath, hushing any noise I might inadvertently utter. If I could stop my heart I would. The organ's pulse is deafening in the tense quiet, a sonic boom in my ears. Zenna ducks and douses her lighted mouthpiece. We're left in total darkness.

A heavy weight shuffles near us. Impossible to tell if it's behind or ahead of us or even in the same passage. Whoever, whatever, it is could be in an upper or lower duct, perhaps one of the squared tunnels adjacent or bisecting this one.

Sweat trickles down the bridge of my nose. I strain my ears. Skin at the sides of my face tightens at the slight movement. What does this shuffling and bumping sound like? Flesh against metal? Metal against metal? Are the interlopers organic or synthetic? Synthesized chatter, clicking and nasally bleating, confirms my worst suspicions. Geth. There are geth in these ducts. And they're close.

In the dark, the machines are right at my back. I wait for the cold brush of metal fingers at the scruff of my neck, for the unforgiving hand clamped around my skull. Or an efficient burst of weapons fire. As I lay in the duct, imagining a million horrors in fine detail, I realize I can see the faint outline of my arm stretched ahead of me. I think it's Zenna's mouthpiece. I reach to slap her leg and see the light's beyond us.

A secondary duct intersects ours several feet ahead. A beam of light, likely generated by a geth's face bulb, cuts through the shadows there. I put my forehead to the dusty panels supporting us, hold my breath. I don't want to see the machine when it passes.

I don't know how geth sensory systems operate. Are they dependent on visual scans? Auditory data? Heat signatures? Zenna hasn't moved, so I don't either. Robotic chatter and the sounds of movement through the ducts grow louder. My body's desperate for air, but I don't sneak a breath. What if geth detect sound vibrations? If they do, we're finished. Organic bodies make all sorts of involuntary noises. The machine will detect ours.

It must be in the intersection between our two ducts. Even with my eyes shut, I discern the intensity of the light that roves with the geth's shambling movements. Pressure builds in my throat and chest. My lungs are stressed. They feel collapsed. Another thirty seconds and the geth will pass. Just another thirty seconds. I almost start squirming before I quiet my disobedient body. I need air.

Breath about explodes out of my mouth when my lips part. I control it, release it easy, silently. The dust cloud that billows up at my exhalation, tickles my cheeks and mouth. And my nose. I clench my teeth, hold in the sneeze that makes my eyes water.

The sounds the geth emits have receded. The play of light against my shuttered lids is gone. Millimeter by millimeter, I edge my hand towards my nose. My fingertips are brushing my lips when I fuck us. Hard.

There are many similarities between a sneeze and an orgasm. Both are a series of involuntary chain reactions within the body caused by external stimulus. During orgasm and sneeze, there's pressure buildup. When that pressure enters the red zone, the excess gets vented and endorphins are released, rewarding the function. We come. We sneeze. I sneeze. It feels good. The dust clears from my nose. I can breathe. I've also triggered the geth's proximity sensors. It's coming for us.

Zenna collides with me when she scrambles backwards.

"Damnit, Neve," she snarls over the chatter and banging of the pursuing geth. "Go, go, go!"

Light invades the squared tunnel. Accustomed to darkness, the sudden brilliance pains my eyes. Blinking, I scuttle back as far as I'm able, palms squealing over the metal floor. The rifle strapped across my chest thumps my back and bounces. The barrel kicks and catches on the duct's roof. Putting all my weight into it, I lurch backward once. Twice. I'm stuck.

Zenna accidentally kicks the top of my head and I holler.

"Keep going!" The quarian woman screams. "We can't shoot it in here without killing ourselves."

"My rifle's jammed against the overhead panels! I can't move!" Shrill screams shred the inside of my throat.

Zenna curses and, contorting her sinuous body, maneuvers around me, squishing me against the duct's left wall. With the quarian woman at my back, the geth is unveiled. Though I can't retreat, I cringe away from the machine as it scampers closer. There's something different about this one's structure, but Zenna has me free before it gets much closer and she won't tolerate my lumbering pace any longer. Clamping her hands around my ankles, she drags me down the duct like a big sack of stuff.

The lace gown plastered to my skin rucks up and rides my waist. The gun strapped to me slides forward and conks the back of my head. I bite my tongue. In a burst of speed, the geth snips the distance separating us from it in more than half. If my chin wasn't banging the bottom of the duct, I'd scream.

The geth doesn't move like a regular geth. Darting forwards in fits and starts like a hyper-sonic reptile, it scales the side of the duct and clings to the roof where it continues its scuttling chase. Sticky pads top the ends of its elongated fingers. A tree frog, all acid green skin and crimson eyes, flashes in my mind. The geth travels the duct's roof like the tropical amphibian would a leaf.

"Ze-n-na!" The _clack-clack-clack_ of my teeth punctuates my call.

A few more strides and the geth will be over us. The machine swipes at me. Its fingers snag a shank of my hair. I see the blond officer. I see her skull collapse in the synthetic's grip, her legs and arms kicking and clawing for freedom. That's me. I'm in that woman's place. This geth is going to crush my head.

The scream that erupts from my mouth is cut short when Zenna jerks me right. I'm torn from the geth's clutches. Most of my hair slips from its hand. Some gets yanked out from the root. Stinging at my scalp invokes another powerful sneeze.

"Kick the vent!"

Zenna's order barely registers in my panicked, shell-shocked state. She's brought us to a bend in the duct. A grated vent, big enough for a body to slide through, blocks us from a larger chamber. Zenna's heel connects with the grate. The aluminum slats are already dented.

"Help me!" Her scream prompts me to action.

Adding my strength to Zenna's, I kick at the vent. The quarian woman's next strike punches through the grate. It bends into the adjacent chamber. Two more well timed kicks from my dancer's legs knocks the grate from its frame.

The amphibious geth springs around the bend. It perches in the duct's corner, sticky padded fingers and toes granting it purchase on the roof and wall. The bulb at the end of its serpentine head blinds me.

"Go," Zenna shouts and doesn't wait for my compliance. She grabs the back of my gown and tosses me into the opening we've made in the duct wall.

I fall. Hit the ground. My right hip and shoulder get banged up. The blond officer's hardsuit boots should protect my legs, but without a sobrane suit, the armor does more damage than the ground. At least I've landed on my side. If I'd landed on my back, the rifle could have done me serious injury. Groaning, I flip over in time to see Zenna in free fall.

"Out of the way!"

I roll right. The quarian woman lands inches from my back as graceful as can be. Dipping into a crouch, she whips the collapsed rifle from her back. In her nimble hands, the weapon snaps into shape. She aims at the gaping vent, awaits the geth. Light from its face bulb sweeps into this defunct scrubbing chamber we've tumbled into. The machine is still there, but it doesn't advance.

We wait. And wait, air thick with anticipation. The geth's light is extinguished. I chew my lips. Without taking my eyes off the darkened vent, I unbuckle the rifle from my chest and heft the gun into my hands. The clicking of the weapon's components as they shift position makes me wince. The sound is too loud. An unpleasant shiver ripples over my skin.

_Where are you? Where are you?_

If I stare hard enough, I figure I can pierce the darkness through determination alone. My nonexistent psychic powers aren't overly taxed.

The geth flies from the open duct. Zenna chases the machine with a volley of rounds. The synthetic avoids impact. Its flexible body jackknifes in mid air and it alights on the wall closest to me. I duck at the chattering reports and flee the geth's proximity. Zenna doesn't come out of her crouch. Her rifle is aimed at the stationary geth, but she doesn't shoot. Believing she's in the panic that gripped me in the duct, I take up the offensive slack. I tilt up my rifle and fire.

Recoil vibrates the weapon in my grasp. The first few shots, if they'd hit, would have been spot on. After that, the working mechanisms powering the gun throw off my aim. I end up putting a great many pock marks and star burst scorch marks on the wall. The second I squeeze the trigger, the geth leaps from the wall and onto the ceiling. I'm swinging my rifle upward when it drops to the floor right in front of us.

Zenna is a statue, her rifle pointed at the wall where the geth first landed. How she stays so poised with a geth a foot away eludes me. I jump back, wasting ammo as I go. Rounds _pip-pip-pip_ in a trail that cuts so close to Zenna's foot, I expect blood. There isn't any, but I chase off the geth. It frog hops from its all-fours position in front of us to its starting point on the wall. Zenna fires.

A quick tug on the trigger sends a single round at the geth. It's obvious to me now that the quarian woman has been lining up this shot since her first unsuccessful volley. Her aim is perfect. The projectile smashes the geth's face bulb. A shower of shattered glass glitters as it falls. Sparks drop from bared circuitry like molten tears. Zenna's second shot has the geth falling too.

When the synthetic hits the ground in a fit of spasms, the quarian woman leaps to her feet. Her rifle is collapsed again and rests at her lower back, its work accomplished. Two objects appear in her hands from the many folds and pockets of her enviro-suit. She tosses one near the geth that is quickly recovering itself and palms the other.

"Quick," she says, "the vent," and shoves me towards the wall. She jumps. Three fingers graze the edge of our escape route, but Zenna can't get a firm hold on the ledge.

"Boost me," she says as I'm already circling her slight waist with my hands.

The grunt of effort I make grants me the extra strength to lift Zenna about a foot. The quarian woman scrabbles into the vent. The mechanical wheezing behind me reminds me I'm not alone in the scrubbing chamber. The geth opens and closes its long fingered hands. Its head lists sideways, its broken face bulb focused on me. There's an aperture inside the bulb casing. The whir and click of moving components accompanies its dilation. It starts getting up and I start jumping for the vent, letting my rifle fall to the floor.

"Zenna!" I cry as I scratch at the wall, trying to hook the ledge. The quarian woman's masked head pops out of the opening. She extends her hand.

"Your gun." Her fingers curl in a gimme motion.

I toss the weapon up to her and she reels it into the hatch. Behind me, the geth experiences technical difficulties. It can't hold its footing. When it tries, it staggers and catches itself on the far wall. The extensive damage Zenna's inflicted central mass occupies its processes. Tiny armatures like a hundred gleaming crab legs repair the mangled hardware exposed by the gaping entry wound in its chest. The muscular skin covering its metal skeleton and component guts knits together over the hole.

"Hey, come on!" Zenna slaps the wall, calling my attention back to the vent.

The quarian woman hangs out of the busted hatch, arms outstretched. We clasp each other's forearms and, with a little hop on my part, she pulls me into the vent just as the geth achieves its balance.

The close confines of the duct can't protect us from the remobilized synthetic. I start scrambling back the way we came. Maybe we can find another chamber and hide out there. Somewhere the geth can't follow. Zenna gets me by the leg. Her arm acts as a leash and her body the stake to which I'm tethered.

"We need a barrier. Now." In her free hand she fiddles with that second device.

"What is that?" I ask.

Zenna lifts the object as if to say "what, this?" and answers, "A detonator. That thing in there won't stop until we destroy it." Footsteps, scampering from the scrubbing chamber, illustrates her point. The geth is on the move. Zenna's mouthpiece flashes in a Morse code fashion when she speaks.

"Put up a sturdy biotic shield and I'll blast it." The quarian woman's thumb hovers over the red button atop the detonator.

_I don't think I can._

The insidious phrase haunts my thoughts. If I don't think I can, I can't. Simple as that. I shut down my outer awareness. The noises the geth emits disappear. So do thoughts of failure. I tense. Dark energy saturates my tissues. The droning hum of power fills my ears like the rush of a surging tide. My visual totem is simple. I picture water. Water flowing from my hand and icing over. I form the barrier layer by layer. Each thin sheet of ice cracks. I open my eyes.

Energy flows from my outstretched palm. It creeps towards the duct walls and forms a membrane separating us from the open hatch.

"Is it ready?" Zenna asks.

The duct trembles when something heavy slams into the outer wall. No doubt the geth scales it. I pump more energy into my barrier. The field's instability translates as a tremor in my arm and as splintering ice in my mind.

"It won't hold," I say.

"Make it hold. There's no more time."

More force pours into the shield, channeled through my palm. The weak barrier is semi-opaque, so I see the geth's hand when it latches onto the vent's ledge. Zenna sees it too. The quarian woman's thumb trembles over the detonator.

"It's not ready," I shout.

"It has to be."

Zenna's thumb comes down on the trigger. The duct quakes. A blast of thunder and heat rips the next words from my mouth. White light, intense as Sol itself, burns away all I can see and I scream and scream at the unbearable heat that engulfs us.

* * *

Empty

Neve's cell was empty.

Rubble crunched under Dakan's boots as he investigated the ruined chamber. Holding cell row, the hub, should have been secure. He wouldn't have left her if he hadn't been confident.

Bodies, synthetic and organic, slumped all around. Dakan inspected them, found them stripped of gear. Even the large, intact geth appeared dissected. A synthetic expert could tell what parts were missing. Dakan was no expert. He was just relieved Neve's body wasn't among the dead. Not any of the dead he'd seen.

After he'd loaded down with gear at equipping, Dakan had left the hub. Fighting concentrated at the Presidium. C-Sec had set up layers of defense going back to the Points of each Ward Arm. Heavy artillery and the lion's share of C-Sec's troops had deployed at the Junctions connecting each Ward Arm with the Presidium Ring. Believing Zakera Point's hub clear of any combat zones, Dakan had ventured to the Oxsana district battalion over twelve blocks away from the Point.

_The geth will never breach the heavy barriers erected at the Junction access points_, Dakan had thought.

But small numbers of the synthetics had broken off from the main force and had infiltrated the duct system. Machines had ambushed every layer of protection reaching all the way to the Points. The entire Citadel had been overrun.

Dakan's battalion had lost turian, salarian, and even human and asari officers. When word had come in over the incident feed that the Zakera Point hub had been overwhelmed, Dakan had escorted the next batch of wounded for treatment. The worst of the fighting had ceased when Dakan arrived. They'd stationed portable turrets at all duct entry points in the hub. Those points that were impossible to arm were placed under constant guard. Pitching in, Dakan had assisted with the destruction of the last geth occupying the hub and had found Neve's cell vacant.

Empty.

"The Presidium."

Dakan rose and turned. Officer Sirrus lingered in the jagged opening blown through the versaplast cell wall. The salarian shook his bandaged head at the mangled human officer on the floor.

"Neve is near the Presidium," Sirrus said.

"Alive?" Hopeful curiosity made Dakan's mandibles wing out.

"The transmitter I had implanted in her at Huerta Memorial doesn't relay vitals. She is, however, immobile."

Dakan's chest and throat became painfully sore and tight. The flush of hope that elevated his mood was snuffed by the salarian's information. Staring at the corpses on the floor, Dakan jutted his chin.

_Immobile means immobile, not dead. You don't know that she's dead. She could be hiding._

"Will you send me her nav point and grant me access to the program you're using?" Dakan asked.

"Already done. Here."

The keyring tinkled when Sirrus lobbed it at Dakan. The turian caught the ring and nudged the keydrives in his palm with his thumb.

"Those have the interface codes for the skycar I requisitioned for Neve's transfer," Sirrus said.

"You never turned them in?"

"There wasn't time between the transfer and the breach. Besides, our mission isn't over yet, is it? Neve's not in C-Sec custody. I'm sure you can retrieve her."

Dakan clenched his fist around the keys.

_I can_, he thought, _if there's anything left to retrieve._

* * *

The heat dissipates. A long time elapses before sight returns. My lungs are baked and my insides parched. In my mouth, my tongue is a thick wad of sandpaper sticking to my cheeks and upper palette. The stench of burnt hair and metal fills the duct. My barrier held. If it hadn't we'd be incinerated and I know Zenna's here because I called to her and she told me to hush up.

Eventually, I discern the quarian as a darker shape in the shadows. She's propped against the duct wall, arms slack at her sides.

"Where did you get the explosives?" I ask in a rasping whisper.

"From the geth. In the cell. Remember?" Zenna shifts onto her knees. "Come on. If you're well enough to talk, you're well enough to move. We're almost there."

The rest of the way is hard on us. We crawl through a never ending duct system that finally spits us into the bottom of an elevator shaft. Zenna gazes into the dark upper recesses of the hollow tower.

"This way," she says. "Hurry." And she leads me to a ladder going up and up and up.

We climb. Our hands and feet make soft metallic noises on each rung. The rifle I tote has never been heavier. I hear gunfire through the shaft wall, explosions, screams. That deafening trumpeting that I heard from my holding cell shakes the shaft. We cling to the ladder. Voices invade my mind, thousands of them all speaking at once in a discordant chime. I don't understand them, but I twitch at their chorus. They compel my body. To what? The trumpeting wanes. I'm left squeezing the rung in front of me, chest heaving.

"What _was_ that?" I ask.

"I don't know," Zenna says from above me. "But if it's geth, we're in more trouble than we can handle."

Zenna stops us at a depression in the wall. It's another vent. Since we're not being chased by a death robot, she takes her time removing the grate with a tool she magics from her suit. The vent covering drops from its frame and plummets down the shaft. The quarian woman swings inside the new duct. I follow. It's a short crawl to the end of the passage. Zenna removes and slides the final grate aside, revealing green grass and blue skies and the wreckage and carnage of the geth's assault on the Presidium.

"There it is," Zenna says. "You can thank me now." She worms back to the ladder and begins to descend.

"Hey," I call. "Where are you going?"

"The Presidium's your end game, not mine. I'm going to CresCare. To Joliil. We'll survive together. Or die together."

"Zenna," I say as the quarian woman's head disappears down the elevator shaft. She bobs up at my summons. "Thank you."

"Keelah se'lai," she says and leaves me.

I spend a moment in the duct, catching my breath and making certain my rifle is secure. I survey the formerly pristine landscape of the Presidium. Buildings are demolished. Bodies and blood streak the grounds like bugs smashed into the tile. Smoke plumes from piles of rubble. Somewhere in this disaster is information that will make me a free woman.

If that information exists, it's in Dalessia Kella's suite.

Band Cluster Agencies here I come.


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46: We're Caught In A Trap**

Water splashes down my throat. Cupping my hand in one of the fountains dotting Presidium Commons, I scoop water from its scalloped edged bowl and slurp the refreshing liquid from my palm. I consider dunking my head in the sculptural pool, but contain myself. Once my belly is heavy and my thirst quenched, I conceal myself behind the fountain and scope out my immediate surroundings.

Sounds of warfare swirl around me, but this upper section of the Commons is deserted. This top level grants an expansive view of ground combat. I note areas to avoid as I plot my descent to the gardens below.

Tangles of violence disrupt the manicured landscape. Knots of blue hardsuits stave off advancing groups of visible geth. Twice while I watch, a shimmering outline of a camouflaged synthetic infiltrates tight clusters of C-Sec soldiers. The results aren't palatable, but deactivated geth forms and blotches of white coolant outnumber the corpses abandoned on the ground. Fighting infects every tier of the scythe shaped wall on the opposite side of the river parting the Citadel grounds in two. Helmeted C-Sec guard stake out one end of each balconied walkway. They press forward, armed with body covering assault shields and assault rifles which poke through muzzle slots in the steel barriers they tote. Solid walls, comprised of officers and shields, drive the geth backward or send them spider crawling onto other tiers where snipers wait to cut them down. The violent tableau so absorbs me that I don't consider the tiered scythe wall overhead until a hail of debris and shrapnel pelts the tile less than a foot away from my hiding spot.

While there's no combat on this level of the Commons, it's chaos on the upper tiers. A C-Sec sniper, a turian, on the lowermost terrace defends what narrow terrain his squad mates have cleared. He's so intent on the team ahead of him that one of the amphibious synthetics fleeing an upper tier takes him completely by surprise.

Adhesive feet clinging to the wall, the geth swings half its frame into the lower balcony area and latches onto the sniper's dorsal shell. One sharp yank sends the turian over the balcony's railing. The officer's sniper rifle flips into space, tumbling end over end until it clatters on the tile not far from where I crouch by the fountain. Not expecting its target to fight back, the geth is knocked from its sheer perch when the turian clings to its arms and swings his body weight like a living pendulum. Both tumble from the lower tier.

I scuttle clear as the pair hits the ground. The rifle report crack of the turian's armor and the geth's metal reinforced form at impact makes me jump. I'm on the balls of my feet. Disturbed by my abrupt motion, the weight of my assault rifle throws off my balance. I land on my butt and bang my tailbone. A shiver of gum tickling pain ripples up my spine. The geth lands on its back and the turian, his side. The officer recovers first and leaves the synthetic flailing like an overturned turtle.

Scrambling for his rifle, the officer flops onto his armored belly when the geth traps his ankle. The turian's chin strikes the ground. Blue liquid sprays from his clenched jaws, stipples the white tile. He must have bitten his tongue. As the officer spits blood, the geth pulls him to itself. I won't stand by and watch another C-Sec soldier die when I have a weapon in hand.

Courage stoked, I swallow and stand before any second cowardly thoughts infect my intent. I aim at the geth, line up the shot, and the turian proceeds to fuck me up.

Cylindrical objects dangle from a compartment belt clipped to the turian's hardsuit. He unsnaps one from its titanium holding ring, rolls it at the geth, then shields his eyes. I'm slow to react and, when the flash bang goes off, I'm standing there in a stupor staring straight into the blaze.

The detonation blows my hearing and the magnesium flare burns out my retinas. I manage to hold onto the rifle as I stagger and grope for the fountain. Over and over, I blink and the world comes back doubled and hazy. Two geth and two turians battle where there used to be a one on one brawl. I spin in the opposite direction. Half transparent smears of their blurred forms trace my vision. A piercing ring whines over muffled, confused sound I'm sure is either gun or rocket fire.

Where's the fountain? I've got to get behind it and get this rifle on my back before someone shoots me. There it is. I swing my arm at what appears solid. The flash bang's aftereffects disorient me. My hand passes right through the phantom structure. I pitch forwards. Buildings and scenery triple and transpose ghostly images one on top the other. I can't determine what's real or not and I can't catch hold of anything. My forward tumble tips me off my feet. I half fall, half skid sideways and bang into something cool and smooth. I rope my no-rifle arm over the edge of this smooth edifice and realize too late that I waver on the precipice of a wide staircase that drops to the lower level of the Commons.

I've thrown my arm over the glass and metal balcony railing. My upper half is anchored. My lower half keeps on going. Feet fly ahead of me. My boot heels grind a shrieking squeal over the glossy tile. I slant, angle in a perfect diagonal, and slide along the polished metal railing like I ride a zip-line. The moment I believe I can defy gravity's pull is brief. I don't take a header down the stairs. I fall one step at a time. _Ca-chunck, ca-chunck, ca-chunck _go my heels on every staggered ledge. Before I crash land onto the lower Commons, I stop myself, arm wrenching at the shoulder from the strain.

"Why aren't you in a shelter?" A static, colony marked face stamps itself over the ghost shapes haunting my vision.

Frame by frame, jaws open and close, each semi-transparent face shape piling atop another, becoming solid, fluidly animated. The flash bang's visual handicaps wear off. All I'm left with is a dull ringing in my ears. The turian that cuffs my upper arm and drags me with him bellows over that.

"Did you miss the evac?"

We're going in the wrong direction. Dalessia Kella's suite is the other way. I dig in my heels. The tactic slows the turian. He rounds on me and starts lifting me by the hips. Whipping my body back and forth like a decked trout, I make myself a difficult parcel. A frustrated sound growls from the turian's jaws and he releases me somewhat. His claw hand still bands about my upper arm. Leaning in close, he sneers at me, baring his teeth.

"Where did you get those boots? That gun?" The officer glances over one shoulder then the other, scans the background over the top of my head. He appraises threats, knows we shouldn't dally here in the open, but won't leave me unattended. At my non-response, he says, "Looting's a serious offense. Looting during a crisis even more so." A tug at my arm draws me a step ahead. "Come with me and I'll make sure you aren't charged."

A looting charge doesn't ping hard on my radar. Scare tactics. That's all this is. The officer wants me to go with him so I don't get myself killed. I fight him when he uses force, so he implements a psychological attack. He's just doing his job, protecting me though his life and the lives of his squad are in jeopardy every second he wastes with me. Doing shitty stuff to people with honorable intentions makes me feel sick and soiled. But I have to reach Band Cluster Agencies. The turian reaches for the rifle I hug with my unhandled arm.

"Do you even know how to use this?"

Before he lays a finger on the weapon, I adjust my grip and thrust the thing upward. The muzzle connects with the turian's chin. His gray eyes squint. His head flings back as he grunts his surprise. His hand falls away from my arm. I pivot and sprint, heading for the closest balcony.

Behind me, the turian must recover. He hollers commands. The thunder of hardsuit boots pursues me. Pushing through my pain and fatigue, I dart forwards in a burst of speed. The metal railed, glass partition boxing in the lower Commons is a few yards away. I cover that ground, huffing and puffing, arms and rifle pumping at my sides. I can't do what I need to do with this gun in my hands. I toss it over the side of the balcony first then I vault over the railing.

The ground is further away than I've guesstimated. I drop about seven feet and land in a crouch. The impact pops my knees, cracks my back, and drives dull spears of pain up my shins. They seize in the worst Charlie horses I've ever experienced. I collapse onto my side, gulping air. Where's my gun? I turn my head and push myself up onto my knees. There it is, gleaming in the tracked down carpet of green grass, resting several paces from where I kneel. Right next to a node of geth that claim a copse of cherry trees near the riverbank. Four question mark heads swivel in my direction. I freeze. In the next half second I have to make a choice: my biotics or my rifle?

Adrenaline floods my system and spikes my reaction time. On all fours, I leap for the gun, tackle it like an American football player. I'm up and aiming when two glints or sliver arc through the air. The objects land on both sides of the geth conglomeration advancing on me. I recognize those objects in time to block my face with my gun. I can't plug my ears, so when the flash bangs detonate, I'm deafened again.

Green flashes on the backs on my closed lids. My eyes tingle despite their protection. Hands, an organic's warm hands, cup my arm pits. As I'm dragged away, I open my eyes. Flora and greenery around me double slightly. The effect isn't as bad this time since I didn't stare directly into the magnesium flares. A dark figure curves overhead. The figure hauls me somewhere shadowed and cool like a little cave. The shelter smells of dirt and crushed grass. There are others here. I feel them though their shapes are indistinct in my damaged vision. No one touches or tries to take anything from me after I arrive. I wait until my sight recalibrates before I speak.

"Who are you?" I ask the batarian, my rescuer, seated across from me.

Batarians have a double set of eyes. For the life of me, I can't recall which is the dominant pair. I focus on is bat-like nose.

"Irrelevant," he says in a bass-deep voice that's strangely hollow. "Are you proficient with that weapon?" He indicates the assault rifle across my lap.

"Yes," I lie.

The batarian's lower eye set blinks before his upper set. Both pairs squint. His head tilts. I don't remember which eyes are dominant, but I know his head position is a sign of disrespect. He believes me beneath him. I clutch the rifle tighter.

"Maybe you should let us have it," a feminine voice pipes up from the rear of the cave. An asari crouches back there along with another batarian and a human man. The asari peers at me from the shadows. "Oh, goddess, are you glowing?"

I stare at the bared vee shaped swatch of my chest. A faint pearly glow illumes my skin. The radiance is so slight neither myself nor Zenna noticed it in the ducts.

"I had shine set injections a while back for work," I mutter.

The asari's tone grows hysterical. "Get her out of here." She pleads with the batarian nearest me. "She'll draw the geth."

"Come on," the human man across from the asari says. "You know it's body heat those machines detect. Those flash bangs we chucked have them confused."

"Flash bangs work on the geth?" I ask.

"No better distraction technique for them." The human's white teeth gleam in the murk. Dark eyes catch the light coming into our shelter from a half oval shaped opening a comfortable distance from us. "The flares disrupt their visual scans and the heat they put off confuses their heat seeking receptors. Geth go for the flares because they produce a similar amount of heat as an organic. Grenades are too powerful unless you're going for pure destruction. With a flash bang you have a chance at escape."

"Geth might rely on their heat seeking receptors, but they still have visual scans that might pick up little miss sunshine," the asari says. "And the more bodies we have under here the more body heat we generate."

Under here. With my eyes accustomed to the dismal light, I see the metal structure surrounding us and realize we're beneath Presidium Commons.

"Relax," I say to the asari. "I'm not staying."

If it's heat the geth use to track organics then I have a perfect plan to keep me safe on the way to Dalessia's suite. The batarian opposite me places a hand over mine when I shift position. He applies a bit of pressure, lets me feel his strength.

"Then you'll be leaving that rifle with us."

Tensing, I draw in dark energy and let him feel my own power. "I don't think so."

It's a bluff I hope he falls for. Unleashing a biotic burst under here will injure everybody. Maybe even me. Plus, just drawing in some of the ever-present force flowing around us brings pin pricks of sweat to my brow and upper lip. I blink. The concentration and effort it takes to contain the energy tires me fast. All this running around and fighting has worn me out.

The asari must see the flicker of doubt in both sets of the batarian's eyes and the way his fingers loosen around my hands.

"Don't let her," the alien woman hisses.

"Don't do this." The human man crawls towards me. "Let her go."

"She can go," the batarian says and I see the violence in the set of his jaw and the coil of his muscles. "But the rifle stays with us."

The alien man lunges at me. I bring my rifle up and he grabs onto it, shoves back, soliciting a grunt from me. A game of tug-o-war ensues. The batarian is stronger, but I'm trigger side and he's muzzle. I twist and angle the barrel at him. Comprehending my intent, both sets of his eyes widen. He shoves me hard to the right as I squeeze the trigger.

A spray of rounds strafe the ground. Wet sounds couple with startled shouts and bellows. I sprawl on the prickly, grass covered ground and curl around my rifle. Hardening myself, I brace for a rain of blows that never come. Unwound from my defensive curl, I sit up.

The asari covers her mouth with clawed hands. At her back, the second batarian is motionless. He stares at his partner who is in a fetal position similar to the one I held. Dark, seeping holes stud his chest. His mouth opens and closes. Phlegmy, rattling breaths shake his frame. They stop. He's death-still like the human man flat on his back an arm's length away. One of the rounds caught his temple. The entry wound is tiny. Blood trickles from the pin sized hole in a thready stream. The exit wound…

I avert my eyes. My brain shuts down on the gruesome image and the aching shard that spears my chest. The memory embeds in my mind where I can't access it, but it's there like a small metal slug in my gray matter. The half oval shaped entrance shimmers as hot tears well in my eyes.

I didn't mean to. He was on my side.

The rustle of hands and knees over grass has my head whipping right and my dismay receding in the cold burn of my fight-or-flight response.

The second batarian halts when I point the rifle at him. I keep him in my sight while I back out of the shelter. The asari's raised fist glows with unspent energy. She glares at me. She must know that she risks her own safety with any offensive biotic display. I move into the light. Neither of the survivors retaliates.

Shielded geth thread through the cherry trees a ways down the riverbank. Their shimmering forms ripple like patches of heat waves through the pale, slender trunks. A blue strip of river parts the well kept lawns. It's the cool, glittering finish line in the race I'm about to run. I have no flash bangs to distract the geth. The only defense I have is speed. At the entrance of the Commons cave, I bobble at a moment of doubt then take off.

The extra weight of the rifle and my hardsuit boots drop my max speed, but I zoom over the hilly terrain, so far, without being detected. Armored feet _piff_ in the thick, sproingy grass. When I put the brakes on at the lip of the river, my heels tear up clods of greenery furred soil.

On Earth, tracts of sand or gravel or mud surround bodies of water. This isn't the case on the Presidium. The river here is artificial, more like a well kept swimming pool with a concrete bed and sides. The depth of the water is a uniform six and a half feet all the way around the ring. I don't wade in. Setting the rifle on the raked up ground, I pop a squat on the river's ledge and ease myself into freezing temperatures. The geth can't track my heat signature if I don't have one.

I tread water. My teeth chatter. The armored boots pull me towards the concrete riverbed. They'll have to come off. I can't swim with their weight plus the rifle's and I'm not leaving the rifle behind. Dipping underwater, I bring my knees to my chest and try opening my eyes. It feels weird. Not painful, but weird and I can't see well. Everything's wavery and murky.

Removing the gear takes some time and a trip or two to the surface for air where I perfect a nose-and-mouth-above-water-only breathing technique. The buckles and straps holding my boots together come apart. Heavy versaplast weights slip from my legs and I'm suddenly buoyant. Surfacing, I clutch the lip of the bank while I loop the rifle over my head and tighten the canvas strap across my chest. After a big breath in, I submerge, scissor my legs, sweep my arms from in front of my face to my sides. This way, I propel myself up the river.

With my special breathing technique, only the slightest bit of my face leaves the frigid safety of the water. Bridges, walkways, cross the river at regular intervals. When I'm under one, I pop up completely and check my surroundings, verify that I'm headed the right way.

I reach ground level of the correct location without encountering a single geth or firing a single round. Or killing anyone else who didn't deserve to die.

* * *

Crouched in the stairwell, I catch my breath and wait for my tremors to subside. Arms and legs prickle as heat returns to them. Fingers and toes are purplish-blue. Feet and hands are mottled and numb. C-Sec and geth strike at each other on every tier. I've got to reach the sixth without being caught.

Bare soles slap the stairs. Water beads off my arms in glittering droplets. Wet, heavy hair sticks to my neck and back, forms a black shell over my rifle. At the second landing, cramps seize my claves. I encounter no one until I poke my head out onto the sixth tier's terrace.

A C-Sec squad sweep the geth from this level. Their backs, including their sniper's, face me. Their assault shield wall protects me from whatever synthetics remain. They've already passed suite twelve. I slip from the stairwell like a shadow and hug the wall as I edge down the covered walkway.

Band Cluster Agencies' automatic door is ajar. The gap isn't big enough for me and the rifle. The weapon goes through first—I slide it along the ground to minimize the noise—and I wedge in afterwards.

Food and drink. Fruit wine and beef and greens. A half eaten meal and a half drunk drink on Dalessia Kella's desk tempt me. I descend on the porcelain plate and crystal goblet. I cram cold meat and greens into my mouth. Chew, chew, chew, wash it down with a swallow of room temperature sweet wine. The foyer was empty and so is the main office. Dalessia's probably at a shelter like I should be, but I'm here and her p-terminal is on and its interface is unlocked. A storage drive juts from the power tower. Perfect.

Dalessia's executive chair cradles my butt and back. I relax into the supple, cushy leather and lean my rifle against the desk. Two greasy fingers shovel the rest of the food into my mouth while I snoop through Dalessia's files.

It's all talent agency crap. Go-see info, client documentation, talent profiles, pre-package sheets. The time at the bottom left of the pane elapses thirty minutes and I've found nothing. I sigh, down the rest of the wine, and open the next folder.

A fist punches over my shoulder and goes straight through the interface, crushing the projector. The lighted panes extinguish. Another hand grabs my hair and pulls. My head snaps back. Dalessia Kella's above me, skin alight with biotic power, eyes hellish with bloodlust. Her feral smile terrifies me.

"Now, now," the asari says. "What's a sweet little girl like you doing in a big bad place like this?"


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47: Exit Light, Enter Night!**

A little gasp of surprise escapes me before a fierce yank to my hair has my teeth clenching. The executive chair tips back. I'm dumped onto the floor. One hand claws at the asari's industrial strength grip on my hair. Feet kick uselessly. Dalessia drags me free of the desk and seat and pounces atop me, straddling my hips. Hands cinch my throat. Nails cut into my skin. I suck in a choking breath and Dalessia squeezes tighter. I thrash my right arm, beating the asari's side. When my feeble blows have no effect, I raise my other hand and the object I still clutch gleams in the light pouring through the picture window.

The wine glass. I didn't drop it when Dalessia tipped me out of the chair. I use it now.

Fighting for air, I wing my crystal bludgeon at the side of Dalessia Kella's head. The goblet smashes against her cheek and temple. Glittering shards spike the asari's face. My hand comes away stinging with its own welter of tiny cuts. Shrieking, Dalessia lurches halfway off me. A hand leaves my throat as the asari scratches at her face. I suck down oxygen I desperately need and let the shattered wine glass roll from my blood-tacky palm. Flexing and closing my fingers, I sap dark energy from the space around me until my muscles are ripe with it. The bit of food I consumed prior to Dalessia's ambush fuels my taxed ability.

Thrusting out my hand, I release a raw blast of biotics. The attack is sloppy, but effective. A shaft of white-blue energy catches a shocked looking Dalessia right in the chest. With a screech, the asari rockets backwards and slams into the wall then heaps onto the floor, motionless. I remain on my back, watching her and nursing my throat. Dalessia doesn't get up. I can't tell if she breathes. I sit up and my chest tightens.

_Did I kill her?_

It's bad for me if I did.

With both Dalessia and Vlair dead and without access to her computer—I scrutinize the power tower and start brainstorming how to bring it with me—there's nothing to prove my innocence. Taking the p-terminal's power tower with me means no underwater travel. The assault rifle's tech is water safe. The p-terminal's isn't. C-Sec's on the terrace and the geth are in check. I glance around the office. Holing up in Band Cluster Agencies isn't a terrible plan. That's what Dalessia was likely doing here. Why risk an evac in the heart of heavy combat when you have a well stocked fort and biotics to incapacitate any synthetics that might infiltrate? The aftermath of the battle would be an opportune time for the asari to slip the Citadel as well. In a shelter, she'd be under C-Sec's watch and unable to escape.

I'd feel better about staying here if I could get the front door closed. I stretch my neck and crack my back then get my feet under me. A forceful kick clears the executive chair from my path. I pad over to the crumpled asari, intending to check her pulse, and lower into a crouch. Dalessia's been awaiting my approach.

The asari's hand clamps around my ankle. She yanks and I drop onto my butt. The biotic blow I dealt her must leave her at least a little dazed because her grip is weak. Two kicks of my captured leg frees me. Flipping over, I dog-scamper on my hands and knees to the desk. I'm reaching for my rifle when Dalessia sends her own biotic counter attack my way.

The gloss finish on Dalessia's desk reflects the radiance of the asari's growing biotic charge. I roll right, dodge the clumsy blast that strikes the side of the desk and sends my rifle whipping towards the windowed wall. I chase the weapon, springing into a loping jog. The asari catches me before I clear the rubble that used to be the side of her desk.

A body rushing at hyper-speed slams into my back. Air whooshes from my lungs. My head snaps back. A current of energy Dalessia expels like a thruster engine propels us. The picture window rushing at my face reflects the biotic display. I make impact with the transparent wall. My head and front side crack against the glass. A lightning strike fissure splits the pane. Teeth cut into the wet interior of my cheek. One of Dalessia's hands shoves into my back, crushing me harder against the window which splinters and crackles. Her other hand slaps around my nape. Even with the side of my face smushed on the pane, I see the asari's image in the glass, her form brilliant with blue flame, eyes ablaze with white light.

"I thought you were geth," she utters between heavy breaths. The current running beneath her skin ebbs and the blue nimbus surrounding her body dims. Her biotics weaken. Until she recharges she can't attack me again. That explains the choking. "I didn't think you'd have the audacity to come back here, sniffing around my suite like a rat." Her hand constricts around my neck. The breath she forces from my mouth puffs a damp patch on the cracked glass.

My arms and legs are free. Since Dalessia is behind me and only the tips of my toes touch the floor, there's not much I can do. I slap and pick at the fingers pinching off my windpipe and kick back my heels. Dalessia pulls me from the window and pounds me against the glass once more. My forehead bangs the pane, sending the solid transparent sheet rattling in its frame. The headshot dizzies me and ends my struggling. My arms and legs dangle from their sockets. By now, I'm accustomed to the visual effects that accompany continuous physical trauma, but this darkness that limns the edges of my vision is different. It seeps around the perimeter of my sight like ink, soaking up all color and light. When Dalessia's grip on my neck cuts off all access to the air, that impenetrable blackness puddles further onto my field of vision. All the while Dalessia growls at my back.

"Udina may have slipped my noose." She knocks me against the window to punctuate her statement. "But I will damn well destroy useless tools."

The last slam against the glass nearly puts me out. I concentrate on the asari's reflection sneering at me from the lighted end of a dark tunnel. Some of the murk recedes as I refuse to forfeit consciousness. The asari's image grows larger, clearer. Camera flashes of brilliance sear away patches of black. The flashes conglomerate, erasing what the darkness used to conceal. A solitary shadow lingers. It drops from the ceiling behind Dalessia, rises, and blooms behind her like something evil. Like death. My death.

A thick, swollen tongue pushes from my lips. Strange wheezing leaks from my open mouth like the last strains of a sagging accordion. Death's shadow glides closer, looms over the asari's back. Its features sharpen at this proximity. It shrugs off darkness, revealing full lips and a sharp chin, broad shoulders, muscled arms, and glittering eyes, eyes as fathomless as the void of uncharted space. Death strikes, but it hasn't come for me. It's come for Dalessia Kella.

A black clad arm shoots over Dalessia's shoulder. The hand around my neck is yanked away and the pressure at my back that pins me to the wall vanishes. I hit the floor, blinking the brightness from my eyes, wetting my parched mouth, and shaking the spins from my head. A loud snap and shrill scream has me interpreting the scene at the center of the office.

Death grasps the front of Dalessia's camisole and fine jacket. His other hand clasps her broken right wrist. He extends her dominant arm to its fullest extent. The asari's hand kinks at a terrible angle. The pistol that dangles from her limp fingers drops when death gives her wrist another violent twist. Crying out, Dalessia snarls and spits in her attacker's face.

"You should be dead," she says.

"I'm not sorry to disappoint." Death's low, raspy voice belongs to someone it can't possible belong to, but it does.

As the rest of the brilliance and shadow departs my sight, I see Dalessia's attacker clearly. He's not death. He's the living dead. Vlair stands toe to toe with the asari. A fiendish grin spreads across the drell's face. Like a ballroom dancer, he whirls Dalessia about by her broken arm. The asari howls as he spins her to his chest. Dropping her damaged arm, Vlair cups the asari's chin and places one hand atop her head. He bends to her ear.

"I won't miss you," he whispers and I realize he means to break her neck.

I won't let that happen.

Shooting up, I round my arms in first position, limbs curving like I cradle two beach balls in the crook of elbow and armpit. When I charge my body with dark energy, I funnel it to the space between my torso and upper extremities.

Dalessia used biotics to boost her speed. I should be able to do the same. Once my arms tremble with the energy I hold, I thrust my arms back and leap forward. Biotics explode at my rear and the force catapults me in the direction I face. As I hurtle towards Vlair, I bring my arms together in front of me and flatten my palms. Arms acting as a battering ram, I collide with Vlair before he snaps Dalessia's neck. The drell skids back several feet but doesn't fall.

Dalessia's on her stomach in front of me. With her good hand, she strains for the pistol Vlair made her drop. I kick her hand aside and snatch up the weapon. The asari gazes at me. Compounding energy licks off the asari's skin. The pistol's locked in a collapsed-carry state. I can't find the release. An orb of white light swells in Dalessia's strong hand. I don't let her wield it. Fisting the pistol's shortened barrel, I cock back my hand and brain the asari with the weapon's handle. The gun goes _thunk_ against her skull and she collapses.

"Stay down," I say and when a noise from across the suite reminds me of Vlair's presence, I point the useless weapon at him. "Stay away from her."

The drell raises his arms palms up, mocking me.

"The release is under the barrel," he says. "Near the trigger."

I find it. The pistol pops into shape.

"Thanks." I don't take the weapon off him. Dipping my chin, I indicate the unconscious Dalessia. "I need her alive."

"That's unfortunate." Vlair takes a step in my direction. "Because I want her dead." A rifle not unlike mine is strapped to his back. My grip on the pistol tightens. My finger curls around the trigger.

"You're not touching her."

Vlair's smile is genuine. "You're going to stop me?" A pink tongue touches his upper lip, slips back into his mouth. "I anticipate it."


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48: He's Got No Conscious, He Got None, None, None, None**

Vlair takes another step towards me. A smirk curves his lips. Tears and scrapes mar his outerskin suit and jacket. Dust dulls the slick black fabric and coats his cheeks and hands. Another deliberate step narrows the distance separating us. I thrust out the pistol, brandishing it at him. The weapon shakes in my sweaty grip.

"One more step and I'll put a round in you."

Vlair's laughter is light, breathy. "Will you?"

With over exaggerated movements, he pantomimes another step, lifting his foot off the floor and slowly lowering it heel first. I aim for the side of his arm. If I graze him he'll understand I mean what I say. His foot is a hair away from the floor when he bursts into motion.

Vlair charges me. I leap back. The pistol slides in my sweaty palms. Frightened I'll drop the weapon, I tense and squeeze too hard on the trigger. The gun goes off. The drell dances out of range in a blur of graceful flitting steps and turns. Displaced air from his whirling body gusts against my chest, cheeks, and whitened knuckles. A malachite green hand slices the space in front of my nose. I bring my arms in close to my body, protecting my hold on the pistol. I retreat. Vlair herds me towards the wall, spinning and jabbing, chopping and kicking. My back butts the window ledge and Vlair stops toying with me. The heel of his hand strikes the center of my chest. The blow takes my breath away and makes my arms spring out. A second chop of his hand comes down on my wrists. The pistol's knocked from my fingers.

I fumble for the gun. Vlair dips with me, captures my wrists, and pins them overhead to the cracked window. His body smothers mine. A swipe of his foot kicks my heels apart. He wedges a knee between my spread legs. Our pelvises touch. The drell's full body weight pinions me to the window. I thrash against the bonds of his hands and body. Neither of us moves more than a fraction. Vlair lowers his head to the cradle of my neck and shoulder, rests.

The drell's chest expands as he breathes. When he inhales my breasts are pleasantly crushed. The material of Vlair's outerskin suit is supple and oily against the bared triangular swatch of my chest. Warm, moist breath makes my neck and shoulder clammy. The smell of old sweat and dust rolls off his skin. The leather scent of his suit and the sweet flavored leaf he favors mingles with the odor. He shifts his weight and his knee rubs against my crotch, inducing a wicked, unwelcome ripple low in my belly.

"You could move your leg," I say through gritted teeth.

Laughter puffs against my neck and Vlair's thigh massages me intimately. "I like my leg where it is. As I recall, you favor crotch shots." He means the time I kneed him in the balls when I was confined to the cosmetic chair after Lanaral's shoot. "I think I'll keep those lethal legs of yours apart." His lips caress my ear when he whispers into it. "The position suits."

"I already pissed myself once today. I wouldn't say I enjoyed the experience, but I'm more than willing to repeat it at the moment."

"A little kink is the spice of life."

I start thrashing again. Violently. Whipping my head back and forth, I say, "You are a fucking freak."

Vlair entertains my struggles then grows tired. Or bored. Thumbnails dig into pressure points at my wrists. Neon strips of red pain shoot down my arms. I whimper and sag and Vlair withdraws his thumbs. Their rough pads stroke the small crescents of pain left behind by the precise attack. His forehead touches mine, props up my drooping head.

"Why are you suddenly so keen to protect the woman who set you up?" Vlair nods over his shoulder at Dalessia's limp body. Amazingly, he didn't disturb her when he charged me.

"I need her to confess to C-Sec. She's the key to my freedom."

"And you think you can make her confess?"

"I don't have another option unless there's something on that power tower I can use, but I'm not pooling all my resources in one place."

"How very shrewd of you," Vlair says and holds my gaze a little too long. "I bet you'd do just about anything to win your freedom."

I twist my face away from his. "What are you even doing up here, dead man?"

"Taking back what's mine."

Rearranging his body, Vlair withdraws his leg, tilts his hips to meet mine. The erection that presses against my inner thigh is difficult to ignore.

"What if I could clear your name?" He asks.

"Can you?"

"What would you give me if I could?"

I catch the insinuation, but he can forget it.

"Dalessia," I say.

Vlair snorts, shakes his head. "Not good enough. She was mine to begin with."

"Then what do you want?"

The drell smiles, opens his mouth to speak, then his eyes track to my left temple. That side of my face got the worst of it when Dalessia slammed me against this window. The skin near my hairline is tight with fluid and bruise-tender. Any disturbance as slight as a rustle of air makes it sting, so I know I bleed. While Vlair and I have gone back and forth, a ticklish trail has wept down the side of my face. The sensation descends to my neck. I wriggle against Vlair, unable to wipe away the itchy blood tear. The drell obliges me.

Dipping down, Vlair hovers his mouth over my neck. The flat of his rough, wet tongue sweeps up my throat to my cheek, leaving a tingling trail in its wake. Where he stops, his lips pucker and press my skin. He draws back only a little and his mouth slants over mine. Our lips almost brush.

"I want—"

I bash my skull into Vlair's forehead. Pain fireworks at my already damaged temple. A fugue of nausea and dizziness jellies my legs. Vlair's head snaps back and a surprised sound gusts from his mouth. His grip on my wrists loosens. I'm able to slip my hands from his hold. A two-palmed strike to his chest scoots him backward a fraction. I have room to blast him.

Tangles of electric blue energy crackle down my arms. A small burst of biotics erupts from my palms. The fiery mass cannonballs into Vlair's chest, knocks him to the ground where he skids a couple of feet, narrowly missing the asari crumpled on the floor. The drell's recovering before he comes to a halt on the ground, but I'm already diving for my rifle.

Forward rolling to the weapon, I secure the gun in clawed hands. I pop up, legs spread and finger on the trigger as Vlair whirls to face me, his own rifle drawn and aimed accordingly. We have one another in our sights. Like vultures, we circle each other, arm muscles bunched and ready.

"I wouldn't touch you with Chellik's dick," I say in response to Vlair's implied payment for clearing my name. "Get out of here before I blast you through that window."

Vlair smirks as though interpreting my bluff. I don't want to kill anyone else. Not even a devious little shit like him. Vacant, unseeing human eyes and a mouth opened in surprise winks in and out of my thoughts when I submerge the image in my subconscious. Tears shimmer my vision. Vlair becomes a green and black blur. I grip the gun tighter and blink until moisture rolls from my eyes.

"Problem?" Vlair asks.

A bitter retort simmers behind my lips, ready for launch, when a quiet groan draws my focus from Vlair. While we've targeted each other, we've paced around Dalessia. Vlair's back is angled towards the window. Mine faces the desk. The asari and a wide expanse of personal space separates us. Dalessia stirs, tries to lift her upper half. Her arms buckle. She collapses. Vlair is suddenly not so interested in me anymore.

The muzzle of the drell's rifle shifts from me to Dalessia. My aim doesn't falter. As Vlair's gun swings to the asari, my finger tightens on the trigger. Dalessia screams, but she's looking at the door not her would be murderer.

Multiple reports go off at once, deafening in the contained space.

The first round fired in that instant strikes the body of my rifle. Simultaneously, I squeeze off my shot and my aim sails wide of Vlair. The round pocks the window behind the drell, further shattering the glass. Aware of the intruders thanks to Dalessia's wailing, Vlair has corrected his aim so he won't waste ammo on an incapacitated asari. Vlair's shot de-cloaks the geth charging into the suite. Three shimmers follow the unconcealed leader. Vlair continues firing at the oncoming geth. Stunned at the silent intrusion and at the shot which could have killed me, I freeze. Dalessia pulls herself away from Vlair, inching along the floor. A tear parts the asari's trouser leg at her upper thigh. A spray of blood mists the air. Her agonized scream pulls me back to reality. I have to get behind something. The desk is the nearest solid object. I dart for the workstation. A trail of rounds chases me to my hiding spot. The desk acts as a shield. The wood vibrates at my back as geth hammer rounds into my cover.

_The power tower!_

Dalessia's terminal is right out in the open. The geth might have shattered it already. If I'm quick I can check. I shift into a squat, count to three, and bob up from cover. Rounds strafe the top of the desk as I drop back down.

Vlair and Dalessia occupy most of the synthetics' attention. The drell has located the chaise that used to sit in front of the window. Projectiles steadily chew through the poor barrier, but it's all Vlair has. A bloom of light paints the room blue. Dalessia uses what strength she musters and creates a mobile biotic shell around herself. The last I saw of the asari, she crawled towards the desk where the terminal and its power tower is still intact.

Dalessia's desk is constructed in an L-shaped layout. I'm concealed behind the horizontal base of the L. The vertical portion of the desk runs towards the entrance to the foyer where the geth advance. To my left and around the corner of this segment of the desk, the workstation opens up so one can access its many drawers and surfaces. The desk will shield me until I rise to retrieve the power tower. Scooting along the floor, I edge into the protected side of the desk. The power tower's above me. All I have to do is stand and take it. Squinting at the tech, I judge how quickly I believe I can stand, disconnect the tower from the terminal, and get down. The corners of my mouth wilt. I can't have my back to the room that long. I'll have to come up shooting and hope I catch a respite in combat to rescue the tech.

My dry tongue sweeps over chapped lips. The assault rifle I clutch awaits my manipulation. Its meters read optimally. The geth Vlair distracts are unaware of my current position. There are no better battle conditions for me than these.

_Here we go_, I tell myself and shoot above the desk's protection.

I'm up in time to see the geth nearest to me collapse in a pile of sparking parts. Vlair sinks behind the chaise, shielding himself from the synthetic's detonation. Arms and rifle block my face and torso. Coolant sprays my forearms. None of the shrapnel cuts me. I lower the rifle to my waist. Three uncloaked synthetics remain. Automatic fire sprays the trio. The rifle jerks in my hands as hundreds of rounds pump out of the muzzle. The report of my weapon must alert Vlair because he abandons his cover as well and opens fire. The geth scatter. One heads for Vlair, one falls back to the foyer's entrance, and the other swivels and faces me.

The ceaseless stream of projectiles I empty into the machine staves off its counter-attack. Rounds pummel its arms and torso, dig out chunks and divots from its metal frame, punctures its plated chest. The synthetic emits a feedback-like screech and spins out of range. The clever machine bluffs well. It feints left, then whirls right. I aim left and shoot into empty space. Cursing, I perform my own chain of light footed spins. The geth's rounds zip near my arms and ears like lethal insects. One opens a stinging trail over my forearm, but I dodge the rest. The tech behind me doesn't fare so well.

Papers fly off the desk. Rounds shred them in mid air. Delicate baubles and paperweights burst into showers of tinkling shards. The power tower shatters and with it my last hope of avoiding a life sentence.

"No!" I scream and fire at the geth. I don't bother lining up shots. I spray the synthetic's position with projectiles. A warning alarm pulses red at the rifle's overheat meter. I press into the weapon's failure zone, but the geth hasn't gone down. I push the rifle's mechanisms as far as they're able. The geth goes rigid, its movements less fluid, more mechanical. It tips over. I hit the ground as it does. The desk blocks me from the geth's detonation. I twist over, panting and bubbly with victory.

_I killed one of the geth. I destroyed an enemy._ I giggle and hug the over-warm rifle. This is why soldiers name their weapons. The same urge overtakes me now that we've worked together for the greater good.

A shuffle of limbs in the darkness shrouding the entrance to the suite's upper level has me tense and aiming a potentially unstable weapon. The heat meter hasn't decreased yet. Levels are in the red malfunction zone.

"Going to kill me?" The voice is strained and mutilated by a wet rasp, but it's Dalessia's. Pain doesn't diminish the arrogant lilt of the asari's tone.

Dalessia crawled behind me when I fought the geth. Blood marks her path like a snail's silvery trail. A puddle of dark fluid pools under her damaged leg. I lower my aim, but I don't relax and my eyes don't leave the asari. Wounds don't limit her biotics. If any bit of her illumes with energy, I'll shoot in defense, but murder? My eyes trace the glistening blood trail. Whatever injuries she has are likely fatal given time. I won't waste another round or another thought on this woman.

The asari shambles to the stairs. The automatic door seals her inside in time to protect her from the geth that rounds the far end of the desk nearest the foyer. I scramble away, tipping up my rifle. Baring my teeth, I squeeze the trigger. The muzzle smokes and snaps. The overheat alarm keens and cuts out. My unnamed rifle is dead. I pushed it too far, too fast. Time to run.

I'm on my feet when the geth starts shooting. Rounds whiz past as I retreat. They send air currents coursing across my skin. My palms meet in front of my chest. A biotic membrane spreads from my hands, creating a concave shield about me. Unlike Shia, I don't have the strength or skill to generate a full protective dome and this shield will only hold against a few rounds.

Whole body tremors make my arms and legs quake. Sweat slides down my forehead and drops off the end of my nose. Some of it drips into my left eye. I squint against the burn. This shield isn't stable. I glance over my shoulder. The distance from the desk to Vlair's upturned chaise is negotiable. I can reach cover before my biotics extinguish. The drell's pistol lies in the projected path. I can hide and defend myself.

The first step backward is nearly impossible. My legs are heavy and weak and my arms are much the same. I'll have to be quicker about this than I thought. Here goes nothing.

I lurch towards the chaise, barely able to keep my arms up. A second geth steps behind me and blocks my path. I squeak because I can't scream. One of my arms swings around. I mean to split my shield and create a double barrier. When my hands part, the energy I manipulate flickers and dies. I'm standing behind the desk flanked by a pair of armed geth without weapon or shield.

I make to dive over the desk's work surface and into the center of the office. A shadow spreads in front of me, a shadow that smells of leather and sweet smoke. A green hand secures my arm and drags me over the desk. Vlair fires as he reels me in. When my back is flush with his front, I see the geth who flanked me erupt against the office's left most wall.

"More are coming," Vlair says and flings me towards the window as he hammers rounds into the single geth left on its feet.

I stagger to the cracked window and catch its ledge. Beyond the office, shimmering forms swarm at the gapped foyer entrance. Vlair's pistol lays at my feet. I grab it, fire first at the geth the drell engages and assist with its takedown, then I redirect my aim and fire at the cloaked, incoming synthetics.

Like a twist of self-rolled smoke, Vlair slithers to my side.

"Don't bother," he says and grabs my wrists and swings my arms at the window. "There's too many."

I'm still firing when Vlair shifts my aim. Projectiles puncture the glass. The outside isn't visible anymore through its many imperfections.

"What good is that?" I ask.

Vlair doesn't respond. He hooks an arm around my waist. The other bands about my chest. The drell rushes backward as geth flood the office. We crash through the window. Blue and green and silver and black forms swirl around me. I scream as we plummet to the grounds below.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Sorry for the late post! I got a bad sunburn over the holiday weekend and spent most of Sunday and all of Monday aloed up and laying under a fan. PSA start: always reapply sunscreen! End PSA. I should be on a regular Monday schedule for these last few chapters. Since I've lost a day this week, it might shift to Tuesdays._


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49: Pour Your Sugar On Me**

We spin and topple from Dalessia's suite on the sixth tier of the Presidium. Screams shred my throat. Vlair hasn't lost hold of me. I'm snug against the drell's chest. He hollers into my ear over the roar of rushing air.

"Now would be a good time to use those biotics."

Biotics? For what? What good would a crappy shield or energy burst do us? No technique I know will prevent us from splatting on the tile. Then I remember Shia's goddess routine.

Shia has a number she does on the satellite stage that utilizes her biotics. The routine has a lot of jumps that Shia dramatizes by generating a small field beneath her as she descends. Instead of falling to the stage, she floats. Using the same technique here should gentle our landing.

I employ the same visual totem I used when I deployed my shoddy shield behind Dalessia's desk. I envision my body as a tube of paint. Pigment (energy) extrudes from my pores onto the canvas (space.) Spreading the pigment means I spread the energy. My backside and calves and my heels tingle. Sparks, like tiny rubber band flicks, fire against my skin while the field deploys. As soon as it does we stabilize. Our descent slows.

While we spiral to the ground we rotate. Vlair's beneath me, his arms still snug around my chest and waist. Does the field affect him as it does me? Does the force flowing under us pluck and ripple his skin? I clench my teeth and fists, gasp for air. The food I scoffed at Dalessia's is long gone, burned up in a sear of adrenaline and biotic displays. How close are we to the ground?

The force buffering our fall jidders at my back like a hundred light-tapping drumsticks.

"I can't hold it!" I cry.

"Yes, you can," Vlair hollers.

I scream as I will my body to draw in more energy from the ether. My core won't obey. I'm worn out. The field shorts. Our bodies become heavy. The scenery around us blurs as we drop. Tears leak from my wind dried eyes. Vlair clutches me tighter.

"You can," he whispers.

No deceit laces his words, or lust, or malice. Vlair believes in me. His life depends on mine. If I don't get the field up we're both dead.

Tapping the energy I need in freefall is a trick. It slips all around me like I try to grasp a sheer sheet of steel. Small amounts, particles, fizz at my fingertips and toes. It'll have to be enough.

I expel the meager energy I've gathered. Beneath us, a weak field fluctuates. Our deceleration isn't so gentle this time. Slowing abruptly is akin to a ground collision. Our legs flop up and we both gasp as breath leaves us. If Vlair didn't have such a firm hold on me, we would have separated. This biotic net is no more stable than the last. It shorts, solidifies. Shorts. Solidifies. With every fluctuation, we plummet and slow. Plummet and slow until we hit the ground with a tongue biting, skull jittering thud. We bounce. The impact jars and bruises, but isn't fatal. Vlair takes the brunt of the crash and _oofs _near my ear. We roll together along tracked up grass and soil, the drell hugging me, cradling me with his body. We rock to a stop. My back aligns with the ground. Vlair's on top of me. His weight makes breathing difficult. I shove at him and tell him so until he elevates. Pushing onto his hands, he glances around then stares down at me.

"Wow. You're a terrible biotic."

I give him a _fuck you_ look. "I'm new to it."

The drell's eyes skim my body. His hands are planted on either side of my head. "I gather. Was it the drug?"

"Did you mean it?"

Emerald colored skin forming one side of Vlair's brow crinkles when it raises in a questioning hook. I roll my eyes.

"Can you clear my name?"

"Ah. Can you make my payment?"

"I—"

Vlair's mouth comes down hard on mine. Pliant lips tease my lips apart. My skin tingles where we connect as though pleasure saturates the drell's flesh and deliciously poisons those he touches. An expert tongue steals into my mouth and plays there. He tastes sharp and sweet like cinnamon and clove. Wicked tingles invade my mouth. Vlair spreads them with each sweep of his tongue. I slap at his chest and side. He won't let me get as high as his face. Strong knees pinch my legs together so I can't kick. Any fight I muster will be useless anyhow. My arms and legs are floppy with exhaustion. And pleasure. I can't control my physical reaction. My back arches, rubbing my breasts against Vlair's smooth outerskin jacket. If my legs were free I'm sure they'd wrap around his waist.

Vlair breaks the kiss, flecking my lips with the tip of his tongue as he draws away. I'm dazed and languid and tired and not at all interested in moving, so when Vlair pats me down, lifts my hands in turn, I do nothing. He makes an irritated sound, clicking his tongue at the roof of his mouth near his teeth. _Tch, tch, tch._

"Now, where is my pistol?" He asks.

A round strikes the ground less than an inch from Vlair's knee. Both our heads whip in the shooter's direction.

"Right here," Dakan says.

The turian's five feet away, pistol in a double handed grip. I must have lost the weapon when we hit ground. Like Vlair, Dakan has weapons attached to his back. There are no straps banding the turian's armored chest. Perhaps his hardsuit has a securing device like Zenna's envrio-suit. I'm surprised anything's functional on Dakan's armor. It's in rough shape. Deep cracks and scratches split its surface on all versaplast plates. One of his gauntlets is missing. Blue blood seeps from his naked fist and drips from his fingers. Scorch marks stamp his leftmost face plates and mandible. Head fringe stands on end and dagger teeth are fully exposed.

"Get off her, Upshad, and get your hands up."

Vlair complies and rises. Upturned palms frame the sides of his face. With my legs mobile, I deal him a kick to the calf for good measure.

"You don't seem surprised to see me among the living, detective."

"That's because I'm not." If Dakan shoots he'll put a hole in the center of Vlair's forehead. "You're a snake, Upshad. Your whole race is just like you. I'll believe you're dead when I unstick my boot from the pulpy mess that used to be your skull."

"Come all this way to threaten me, did you?"

"I came for Neve. You're a bonus. Neve." Dakan nods me over without breaking eye contact with Vlair.

Hopping up, I steady my wobbly legs, dust myself off, tuck a stray nipple back into my ruined gown, and trip over to Dakan.

"Take the pistol from me," he says and when I fumble with his grip, adds, "carefully. Don't lower your aim. Keep your eyes on him."

I do. The pistol is transferred and I'm now the one with a gun to Vlair's head. This is a good look for me. Dakan unclips his rifle from his rear holster. The latching mechanism gives him trouble.

"Shoot him if he moves," Dakan says.

My eye twitches. The pistol weights down my hands like a twenty pound dumbbell. Shoot Vlair? He's a conniving shit head, but—

"Don't worry, Neve." The drell's voice catches me off guard. I shift my weight. "I'm not going to move. But should you really be aiming at me?"

Silence. That's what I give him. I won't let him pull me into any deception.

"Shut up, Upshad." Dakan has his rifle half extracted. Vlair is content to ignore him.

"Do you honestly believe this turian is your best bet? He's already betrayed you once."

Dakan's head jerks up. He growls.

_How does he know that?_

My expression must do the asking for me because Vlair says, "It's my job to know things. Is placing your trust in him wise?"

_Like you deserve an iota of my trust._

"I meant what I said," Vlair continues. "I can prove your innocence. I can keep you out of jail. All he can do is keep you in it."

"When you're in my custody I'll have all the power you have. Unless you'd prefer being spaced," Dakan mutters.

"He can't hold me, Neve. I escaped a guarded clinic from deep freeze. And that was simple. I can protect you if you come with me. There won't be a moment of the price I extract that isn't intensely enjoyable."

I roll back my shoulders. Imagining those poisonous tingles elsewhere has me actually considering his ludicrous offer.

"Come with me," Vlair implores.

No. I can't. Selling myself for fame, attention onstage is one thing. Trading my body for my freedom is too high a price even with Vlair's extensive skill. I'm not my mother, not a sex worker, not a junkie. I won't leap at Vlair's dangling carrot. My head slashes slightly left.

"Your loss," Vlair says and runs.

I choke the pistol. My finger hovers over the trigger, but I don't shoot. Vlair might have information I need. C-Sec can track him down. There's no way he can get off the Citadel. Is there?

"Neve, shoot him!" Dakan swings his rifle around from his back and fires at the fleeing drell. He gets off one round. Two. The next won't miss.

Vlair pitches forwards, crumples. The drell's on his knees. We all are. All of us clutch the sides of our heads. Hellish resonance shakes the Citadel. Deep trumpeting makes my eyeballs jump in their sockets. I've lost the pistol. It's on the ground at my knees right next to the barrel of Dakan's dropped rifle. My brain writhes, infested with illusory maggots. Under the thin case of my flesh, my soul ripples like a swarm of rats ready to abandon ship. Voices swirl within the roiling chaos of my mind. They implore me. I rise though my legs protest, begin to walk. I don't know where. Not yet, but I'll know when I get there.

"Neve. Neve, stop!"

A clawed hand catches my shoulder and drags me back. The voices commanding me dissipate. Silence reigns on the Presidium. Well, not silence. There are battle sounds, but they're not constant. Water laps at the edges of the man made river. The odd passing skycar hums overhead. The crushing gong that overrides my will has dissolved. I surface from my stupor and whirl to where Vlair collapsed.

He's gone.

"He must have fled while we were incapacitated." Dakan hasn't let go of my shoulders. He squeezes them. "He won't escape C-Sec. If he has information, we'll get it."

"But what was that sound?" I rub the back of my skull.

Dakan turns me towards one of the cathedral style viewing windows, the ones near Presidium Tower. "That."

Menacing blackness blocks the Serpent nebula's violet light. Massive arachnid legs grasp at the station. Speared appendages sweep into a squid body that tapers into a calligraphic point. Pinpricks of light zip around the imposing construct; cruisers firing. Glowing striations form shapes on the construct's black body.

"Is that a geth ship?" Images I've seen of geth ships look like big wingless wasps. This looks like a killer crustacean.

"I don't know, but it's affecting the whole station. Even the keepers are malfunctioning."

"How did the geth get on the Citadel, anyway?"

"The mass relay."

I regard him cockeyed and Dakan's amber eyes narrow. His mandibles shutter his jaws.

"Not the external relay. The memorial in the fountain."

"The little one near the Junction entrance?"

Dakan nods. "It's functional. I discovered that when I made contact with the Junction defenses. It's a mini relay perfect for transporting ground troops over massive distance. C-Sec's cleared the way from here to there. It's not totally safe, but we can make it out. The forces at the Junction will grant us passage."

"Right." I mean to retrieve my pistol and Dakan's rifle. The turian catches me before I pass him. He folds me to his chest and for the first time in a long time, I relax.

"I would kiss you if I could, but we'll make each other sick if you permit it," he says.

"Would you let me go if I ran?" I'm safe with Dakan. I'm also destined for a holding cell in his care. Dakan holds me at a distance.

"I told you I would fix this. Let me. I want nothing in return save a fraction of your trust." He releases me. "But you have to choose." He gives me his back.

If I run, Dakan won't chase me down. I trot to where we first fell to our knees, pick up the pistol. I glance in the direction Vlair ran then back at Dakan who hasn't turned around. Escaping the Citadel, if that's possible, means starting over somewhere else with no funds and no connections. I could do it. I'd have my freedom and not much else. I collect Dakan's rifle and head his way. I press the weapon to his chest.

"My life's in your hands," I say and jog ahead.


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter 50: As The World Falls Down**

The Junction entrance to Zakera Ward is dead ahead. So is a battalion of geth. They spawn from the relay as Dakan and I approach. Synthetics fan out into combat formation. Dakan pulls me with him into an elevated row of sculpted hedge lining the bottom of Presidium Commons. Waxy leaves and sharp branches scrape my bare arms and legs.

"Gah," I say as the pokey hedge conceals us.

Dakan shushes me and prunes a spy hole in the growth. C-Sec forces engage the geth troops. Rounds streak through the air.

"Great," I whisper. "Now what?"

"Now." In the crowded space, Dakan collapses his assault rifle and latches it to his back. Another rifle appears in his hands. Dakan folds it out to its full shape. "We back up the men and women in blue. I need more room. Clear away more of these branches."

I set down my pistol. Twigs snap in my hands. Branches tear away from the thick stem of the hedge Dakan and I huddle under. When I complete my chore he has space to finish his weapon's set up. The barrel of his rifle extends out and out and out and two legs kick stand off the body. Dakan lays along the sniper rifle's length, slots the elongated muzzle through the opening he carved in the hedge and puts an eye to the sight. Hunched over and on my knees next to the turian, I mentally urge him to take a shot. He's taking forever to line it up.

_Now, now, now!_

A million shots I would have shot pass by.

"Dakan."

"If you're so hot for a kill, get to work with that pistol. Every round helps."

The round he fires explodes from the end of the barrel. One of the big synthetics, one of the ones with shoulder rockets, takes a knee.

"One more ought to do it," Dakan says and fires again after a brief pause. The colossus tips like a redwood onto its front and blows in a mist of milky coolant and skin slicing swarf. I stick to the smaller geth with the majority of C-Sec's forces barricaded at the Zakera Junction's entrance. For the giant machines, C-Sec has their own snipers who disable their rockets and bring them down before they storm the line. Tense moments lodge my heart in my throat, but we hold our own until an amphibious geth, and its companions, traces our position.

The bedlam ahead, teams of zig-zagging machines all firing with greater speed and precision than an organic is capable, demands all of mine and Dakan's attention. Our engagement techniques meld together. We become an efficient team. A single, precise shot from the sniper rifle incapacitates standard geth models and slow the giant versions. I follow Dakan's powerful blasts with short bursts of weaker shots. Dakan suggests the brief volleys to prevent the constant risk of overheat. Feeding off how well we work together, we jump from target to target unaware of the geth scampering down to us from the upper levels of the Commons.

An immense weight crashes between us, drives us apart. The ambush destroys a large part of the hedge along with Dakan's sniper rifle. I tuck my pistol to my chest and curl around it as displaced twigs and leaves rain down on me. When I unwind, I find Dakan pinned by one of the sinuous geth that attacked Zenna and I in the ducts. He kicks and tears and snaps at the creature poised atop his chest, can't dislodge the machine whose strange chatter lifts the fine hairs on the back of my neck. The geth slaps a spidery hand on Dakan's face, muffling the turian's shouts. A geth has done this before. Outside my holding cell. To a blonde C-Sec officer.

Heat spreads over my face and suffuses my limbs. The pistol's metal angles bite the tender skin of my palms when I squeeze. My bones vibrate as my heart cop knocks against my ribcage. A feral howl wails from my open mouth. I spring and cling to the synthetic's back. With my weight bearing down on it, it can't leap away and attack from a different angle.

I latch onto one of the petal shaped metal sheets that form the geth's head and pull back. Its serpentine neck straightens. The short barrel of my pistol wedges between two of the plates. I fire and fire. Coolant geysers from the machine's damaged head. Its electronic chattering grows shrill. It releases Dakan's head and flings me off its back and into the prickly hedge. I'm rocking up when it flies at me and attempts to pin me like it did Dakan. The wounds I've dealt it throws off its precision. One of my hands gets shackled to the ground. The geth's other arm flails like it can't control its limb. Its head flops with its erratic motion. I do the exact opposite of what anyone, I think, would expect.

I embrace the geth, pull it down by the wires looping like tangles of intestine from its mangled neck, lock my legs around its slender torso. I jam my pistol to its face bulb. The glass housed light explodes when I squeeze the trigger. I don't stop squeezing. All Dakan's advice about short bursts of fire flies my mind. This thing tried to take Dakan from me. Anyone and anything taking from me I will not suffer to live. Until this machine lies in pieces, I won't stop.

The pistol's overheat alarm blares and already I gather dark energy to me. The geth, possibly comprehending its destruction, gains loose control of its arms. The hand that pins mine to the ground covers my face. The pistol I misuse jams. Protective systems preventing catastrophic damage to the weapon lock its firing mechanism. I toss the gun aside as the geth begins closing its fist around my skull. The part of me that's afraid is obliterated by the me that's bound to survival, by the me that conquers all enemies of my destiny.

If I'm dead I can't be rich and famous.

Both of my hands are free and empty. I thrust them onto the geth's chest. My body is a conduit, my arms jumper cables, my hands conductive clamps. Energy charging my core shimmers down my limbs. I pump more power into the machine than its circuits can handle, but its grip tightens.

_Let go_, I think. _You're already dead._

Before, I believed my physical strength limited how often and for how long I could use my biotics. For a brief instant I see this isn't so. Energy is limitless, boundless. I am depleted when I release it and replenished when I call for it. My power has only the bounds I grant and right now I have none. I pour all I have into the machine. It stiffens and topples and then I'm atop it, shocking it over and over like a living defibrillator.

"Neve!"

A voice pierces the intoxicating hum of my power. I snarl and ignore it and tear at my enemy.

"Neve, stop!"

The hands that land on my shoulders pull. I round on this new challenger. I capture his neck.

"Neve, _please_."

The biotics I gather in my empty palm sing for release. I meet this enemy's eyes.

Bright amber shards slice away the ties binding me to fury. I punch my energy ripe hand into the air and release, release, release without harming the turian who holds me. As the power within ebbs and my strength wanes, I'm lifted. Wind ruffles my hair and the remnants of my thin gown, cools my overheated skin. Dakan runs, carrying me with him. A bloom of heat and the sound of an explosion come from behind us. I'm dimly aware that this is the geth I destroyed.

_How did I do that?_ I wonder.

A moment ago, I grasped a fundamental truth, an idea that gave me endless strength. It's gone. I'm left bewildered by my actions.

A shadow passes over us. Dakan comes to a halt behind a structure buttress supporting a consumer complex adjacent to the Junction entrance. I'm set down. I fling my arms around Dakan's neck, bury my face in his cracked chest plate.

"It was going to kill you." Dry sobs obstruct my throat. My words come strangled. Talons rake through my tangled hair.

"But you saved me," Dakan says and is good enough not to mention _I _almost killed him after I did the saving. A gentle nudge puts space between us. Dakan untwines my arms from his neck. "We're not through this yet."

Beyond the structure buttress is the charred rubble of the hedge we fled. Three more amphibious geth crawl from the Commons and, finding no organics left among the foliage, leap into the midst of combat at C-Sec's barricade, then onto the Junction entrance's upper arch. Organic troops direct fire overhead and pick off the spry machines. They lob the heaviest munitions at the giant geth and at the standard infantry which replenishes from the relay monument whenever C-Sec beats back a significant portion. Dakan signals an officer on lookout. The other turian behind the barricade waves back and directs a couple of the offensive team to his aid.

"They'll provide suppressing fire so we can get to the barricade."

The landscape teems with heat seeking, hostile geth. The barricade lies an unfathomable distance across territory littered with the remains of felled machines and air disturbed with thousands of flash-fast projectiles. I droop against the structure buttress and shake my head, mouth open.

"Dakan, I don't think I can—"

The detective grasps my arm. "You took care of that." With his un-holstered assault rifle, he gestures at the burned out hedge. "I'll take care of this." He ushers me behind him. "Stay close. We'll make it."

Performing some complex finger acrobatics, Dakan signals his intent to the C-Sec soldiers committed to our well being. Head swiveling towards me, the detective nods for my readiness. I swallow, nod back, and we're away.

The tile is hard and cold against my bare soles. My feet pound the ground as I keep up with Dakan's incredible pace. The inverse bend of the turian's legs gives him raptor-like speed. He's slowed for my benefit, but I lag behind. The officers behind the barricade engage the geth, forcing the smaller infantry behind cover. Snipers occupy the two colossus left. Dakan fires while we run, mowing down the smaller troops that escape the officers that back us up. Overloading my pistol is a mistake I regret. I sieve dark energy from the air, housing it in my core. It should be enough for a small shield or a few blasts if we need them. Five more feet and we'll be behind the safety of the barricade. Then Dakan throws out an arm, backing us towards the buttressed tier wall.

"Above you," Dakan shouts to the officers and points his rifle at the Junction's archway where another amphibious, previously cloaked, geth perches, ready to spring on the C-Sec troops below. The volley of rounds the detective sends at the machine knocks it from the wall. It lands damaged and flailing behind the line. The officers nearest to it converge on the machine in a chaotic storm of motion. The concentrated frenzy disrupts the structured formation the C-Sec troops maintain. A panicked salarian slings his backup rifle over his shoulder in a wild arc. His weapon strikes a fellow officer, a bald human man with a grenade in fist, in the back of his head. Instead of pitching the grenade into a charge of geth, he flings the explosive our way.

"Get back!" Dakan shoves me into the wall. He looms, moving to shield me with his body.

"No!" Dakan's armor and energy shield won't stand against a detonation like that at close range.

I slip passed the turian. The energy I stored rumbles in my gut. I shunt a small amount up my outstretched arm. A dense, brilliant sphere ejects from my palm that induces an extreme pins-and-needles sensation over my entire hand. My aim is shitty, but the display I release is wide enough to make up for my deficient accuracy. The sphere connects with the incoming grenade, blows it into the structure buttress farthest from us, the one closest to the Junction barricade. There's a mass exodus of C-Sec officers from the front line. They retreat into the shelter of Zakera Ward and take cover. Dakan holds an arm around my shoulders, rounding over me like he meant to before I dodged his first attempt. I press my face to his chest plate, shielding my eyes from the blast when the grenade explodes.

A crack of close thunder eclipses all sound and a wave of concussive force shoves Dakan into me. The thunder continues long after it should have dissipated. It sounds like stone, or versaplast, splitting. I peer over the oval dome protecting Dakan's un-plated neck. Half of the barricade is gone. Black marks streak the structure buttress where the grenade landed. One mark is darker than the others. A jagged crack moves up the length of the buttress, separating it from the complex. The supporting wing crumbles and with it a large part of the combat weakened upper tiers. Chunks of stone and versaplast drop from the consumer complex. Debris falls like comets, cratering the ground in a trail that intercepts Dakan and I's position. The building collapses. We can't outrun the fallout. That doesn't mean I can't do something about it.

Charging both my arms depletes the rest of my stored energy. I place my hand on Dakan's chest. The turian flies backward when I drive a slug of biotics into his torso. He lands on his back, out of the avalanche's range. When the buttress gives way and the tiers above crumble, I'm the only one beneath it. I cover my head with my other charged arm. The energy snaps into a shell shaped membrane. Skull sized rocks bounce off the biotic dome. The constant pounding drives me to my knees. Half of a balcony spears the ground not six inches from where I kneel. The impact bounces me onto my ass. I shriek, maintaining the shield as a growing shadow darkens the ground I occupy.

Shutting my eyes tight, I pour all I've got into the destabilizing shield sheltering me. Stone, versaplast, sheets and bars of metal come down all around me. A gigantic boulder crashes and crushes my leg. I wail and grasp my thigh, breaking up my shield. I tug and tug from the stone, from the warm, wet pain cocooning the portion of the limb smashed by the rock. Rubble piles up. Since nothing protects my head, a shard of stone strikes the top of my skull and I collapse on the ruins that pin me to the ground. I'm buried, sealed in darkness.

Before I pass out, I think, _I saved him. At least I saved him._


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter 51: Until My Legs Give Out From Underneath Me**

The unexpected blow Neve leveled at Dakan left his gut aching through his armor. He sat up and his jaw hung open at the mountain of debris piled where Neve once stood. His insides became leaden and light all at once.

_Neve where is Neve get to Neve save Neve._

Clawing to his feet, he darted forward then skidded to a stop. Geth clambered over the rock pile, intrigued by the new access in the Zakera Junction barrier. Dakan reached for a weapon at his back, grasped empty air. The hopper geth, aptly named by officer Sirrus, had destroyed his sniper rifle and he'd lost his assault model when Neve had cast him from her side. Pivoting, he scanned the immediate area. No assault rifle.

Synthesized chittering from the rubble pile flared Dakan's mandibles. He tipped up his head fringe at a geth trooper descending the mountain that spotted him. The geth had its weapon ready but un-aimed. Its face bulb flashed up and down Dakan's length. Another trooper joined it. And another. Though he couldn't say why, Dakan sensed deliberation between them, like his fate hung on their consensus.

_What can I do with no weapon?_

Dakan stole a glance behind him. Geth blocked any retreat he might divine. New synthetics filed from the relay monument. Thus far, C-Sec had been unable to destroy the portal. Keepers and the strongest synthetic forces defended it. That maddening claxon from the black warship turned away all C-Sec soldiers who managed to get close to the fountain.

Standing there, waiting for geth action was foolish. Dakan had no long range weapons, but his armor and energy shield could stand a final assault. If he couldn't rip and tear and claw his way to Neve, he'd die trying.

Booted feet scraped the tile like an angry bull's hooves. Dakan gnashed his teeth at the trio of geth, roared, and took off. Arms pumped at his sides. Knees came to his chest. Feet propelled him forwards and his head fringe sliced the air. The geth reacted to the charge, melded into combat formation. Their rifles trained on Dakan. Three round black holes at the end of long barrels stared him down then flashed white.

Tiny, lethal projectiles battered Dakan's energy shield. Each impact caused a wave of static to run up and down the kinetic barrier's perimeter. Each impact depleted the kinetic shield's power until Dakan made his final run to Neve with only his battered and gapped hardsuit protecting him. Bobbing and weaving and swerving, the turian avoided shots to his head and central mass. For a time. The closer he came to the geth, the more shots they landed. A stream of projectiles directed at his cracked chest plate split the armor in two. The front portion of the versaplast carapace fell away. The next volley caught his bare chest. His natural body armor, forged from eons of survival on Palaven and its metal poor core, could deflect a single shot, perhaps two or three at most. Under the assault of three geth armed with automatic weapons, his plates failed.

Super heated projectiles shredded Dakan's chest, lodged in the metal armor covering his delicate flesh. Rounds bored into his naked torso. Gouts of blue blood poured from the tiny punctures. Miniature slugs of metal tore his insides, leaving trails of agony like molten worms burrowing through his entrails. Dakan faltered, gasped. Blood coughed up his throat. Heavy breaths came wet and stuttered. Less than three feet from the rock pike, he fell. His face busted against the tile.

Shouts and weapons' reports from the barricade's direction let him know that the C-Sec forces stationed there were still active, still in the fight. If Dakan couldn't get up he was out of it. His body lurched with his efforts towards motion. Weak and heavy arms refused to move, let alone support his weight. He made a slopping sound when his body slapped back down on the tile. Blood caused the slopping. He lay in a growing puddle of it.

_Get up. Get up. You're going to die if you don't get up. So will Neve._

The thought gave his will a steroid booster and infused his torn muscles with enough strength to at least turn over. Just in time to see the geth come over him, rifle aimed at his face. The machine's face bulb shone in Dakan's eyes. He squinted. Why wouldn't the damn thing shoot?

_Because it knows it doesn't have to. It knows it's won._

Dakan growled at the gleaming synthetic towering above him. He had to be wrong. Machines didn't savor pain. Machines felt nothing. They were machines. So, why did it hesitate? Cock its head from side to side like it scrutinized him? Supposedly, the organic experience meant nothing to geth and, supposedly, synthetics didn't make mistakes. This one did. Hesitation was a mistake. It should have shot and left Dakan's steaming carcass behind. Because it didn't, the Alliance vehicle that came from who the hell knew where ran it down, barely missing Dakan who tensed as it growled passed.

The crunch and squeal of metal goaded Dakan to his elbows. Burning rubber tainted the air. The scent made his nose crinkle. His arms wobbled under the strain of his weight. He staggered upright before his body shut down. The vehicle that almost crashed into the rest of the consumer complex was a Mako, an Alliance heavy combat vehicle. The mangled forms of crushed geth lay under its wheels. Dirty smoke billowed from the vehicle's body. Where had it come from?

Clutching his torso, Dakan angled in one direction, then the other. The relay monument…it was a jumble of metal shapes drooping into the fountain's shallows. The Mako must have traveled through the gate, torn it up in the process. The vehicle destroyed all the geth in its path as well, leaving the way to Neve clear for Dakan.

Step by agonizing step, Dakan trudged to the mound of boulders and gravel that covered Neve. The turian's insides sloshed painfully. Toes squished in boots an inch full of liquid that should have been in his veins. The rock pile, the Mako, and the tile swerved off kilter. Dakan swerved with them and took a header into the debris. He coughed blue onto the pale stones and couldn't get up.

"Shepard. Shepard, we've got wounded."

"There's wounded everywhere. Not our priority."

The voices were turian, human respectively. Tall shadows cut the light Dakan blinked through. The bulkier shadow bent over Dakan. Light from an activated omni-tool revealed the shadow's identity. Navy colony markings colored the turian's silver-gray face plates. Icy blue eyes assessed Dakan's injuries. Strong hands flipped him over.

"Ah," the turian said and hovered his omni-tool over Dakan's perforated torso. The touch of a palm to his wounds made him shudder.

"Relax, officer," the turian said. "This will help."

Soothing warmth spread over and through Dakan's torso. All his muscles uncoiled. He flowed onto the rubble which supported him, coasting on a wave of delirious pleasure. Intense itching around his entry and exit wounds had him grumbling. The irritating sensation dragged him from the wondrous current.

"Leave it alone," the turian smacked Dakan's ready-to-scratch talons away from his gut. "They won't heal if you poke them. Get ready for the adrenaline booster."

Dakan twitched at the small pinch at his neck. While what was surely medi-gel warmed and healed his stomach, an ice water flood of adrenaline surged through his chest. The booster jump-started his heart and mind. Dakan's thoughts raced. A name flashed at the forefront of his brain like a blinking overheat icon.

_Neve. Neve. Neve. Neve. Neve._

Leaping from his prone state, Dakan scrabbled to a place on the rubble heap he thought best approximated Neve's postion. Rocks and pebbles _click-clacked_ down the pile as he tossed them away.

"Neve! Neve, can you hear me?" A biotic shield covered his dancer when the building collapsed. It could have protected her from the worst, kept her alive.

"Garrus." A human female's gruff voice carried to the top of the pile. "Liara's ready. Let's go!"

An extra pair of taloned hands joined Dakan in his work. Garrus Vakarian, Dakan recognized him now, called over his shoulder to his commander.

"Push ahead. Trust me, Shepard. I'm faster than both of you. I'll probably beat you to the tower. I know I'm the better shot. Try to at least hold Saren back before I get there and handle everything."

When she spoke again, Shepard's voice was distant. "You're the better shot when you stand in front of me and block all mine. I'm trusting you on this one, Vakarian. Don't let me down."

Chuckles puffed out the former C-Sec officer's mandibles. "Never," he said under his breath.

The turian pair plowed a significant dent in the rubble in a short time. The pile wasn't as dense as Dakan expected. Jutting beams from the crumbled structure formed pockets of space in the heap.

"You should go with your commander," Dakan said while they labored inside a pocket that would likely fit two additional turians. "Saren's capture is of greater importance than the life of one human."

"You don't believe that," Garrus said and huffed, lifting a large boulder out of place. "I hear it in your sub-vocals. Besides, Shepard only needs me for the tough missions. This is a walk in the Commons." Garrus paused, tilted his head. "Hear that?"

Dakan held his breath and craned up his neck. The gentle _clack_ of shifting stones signified movement. Along with Garrus, Dakan tilted his head and leaned in different directions, searching for the source. The ex C-Sec officer dropped into a crouch and wedged his talons under a large segment of a former balcony.

"Here. Help me lift this," he said as he strained.

Combining their efforts, Dakan and Garrus hefted the structure out of the way. More stones lay under the massive chunk. And fingers. Two blood-tacky fingers. They peeked from the dust and rubble like slender, red blotched stalks. They curled at the first knuckle as though weakly beckoning to them.

Dakan pounced on the pile next to the first sign of life. Like a varren burying a kill for later consumption, he burrowed into the pebbly terrain. With Garrus' aid, they'd soon unearthed Neve's arm, then the other. Faint moaning whispered from the ground like wisps of steam.

"I can take it from here," Dakan said between huffs and grunts. "Go meet your commander."

Garrus stayed put, kept hand shoveling. "You have the shot of medi-gel she'll need?"

"No."

"Then you need me."

Dakan gritted his teeth. "C-Sec needed you." They uncovered the top of Neve's head. The stones they now moved were red spattered. The sight made Dakan's movements hurried and clumsy.

"C-Sec held me back."

"You abandoned your duty on a whim."

Garrus' soft laughter had Dakan cursing. "No. I followed my true duty. It wasn't with C-Sec. From the looks of it, your loyalties don't align entirely with Citadel Security or you'd be with your battalion, not excavating one human woman from an early grave."

"She's a Citadel resident. I'm supposed to protect her."

"Keep telling yourself that." Garrus turned his head and Dakan thought he heard, "I always do."

Neve's head rocked back. Squiggly red lines spider webbed her face. Her eyes rolled white. Bloody spit stained her teeth and dribbled from her cracked lips. Gravel slid down the trough they dug, revealing most of the dancer's upper half which was covered in ugly purple-red marks and deep scratches. Dakan hooked his hands under her arms and tugged. Awful wailing stopped him. Neve quieted when he released her.

"She's pinned," Garrus said. He slapped a massive boulder next to them. Throwing his weight against the stone sent it rocking. Neve tensed in Dakan's arms and cried out. The detective started up. Garrus waved him back.

"I can move this on my own. It'll be painful for her. Hold tight and I'll be quick with the medi-gel and a pain dampener."

Dakan dropped an arm around Neve's chest and about her shoulders. He lowered his chin to the curve of her neck and whispered.

"It's alright, Neve. Just a little pain and it'll be over."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth when Garrus toppled the boulder off Neve's leg. She screamed. Dakan held her tight as convulsions arched her back. The dancer passed out and went slack. Cupping her chin in one hand, Dakan checked her pulse. It was there. Faint, but there.

"What's going on down there?" Dakan asked, glancing over Neve's shoulder at Garrus who busied himself over the dancer's injured leg. An omni-tool glided over and obscured the extent of the damage. When the former C-Sec officer rose, Dakan uttered a pained noise and hugged Neve to his chest.

"I don't know how much if any can be salvaged," Garrus said. His mandibles wilted. "I'll send a recovery team your way. The medi-gel's stanched the blood flow. Hopefully, she'll stay out. Better for her." Garrus started climbing out of the pile when Dakan called to him.

"Vakarian."

The turian angled his head over his shoulder.

"Thank you. Don't let Saren escape."

Garrus' brow plates came together. "Never." Then the other turian was gone to back up the human Spectre to which he'd pledged his loyalty.

Dakan touched his forehead to the top of Neve's dusty skull. Maybe he had more in common with the ex-officer than he liked to believe.


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter 52: We're Not Broken Just Bent**

The bleep and hiss of machines are the first sounds I know are real. My head turns side to side on a stiff neck. Trapped air puffs from the pillow that cushions my upper half. On the left, towers of med-tech monitor and stabilize my health. Screen interfaces chart my vitals and track my meds, minerals, and fluids. Jargon displayed on the interface readouts may as well be mandarin for all I understand of it. To the right, on a leather cushioned window seat framed by an acid-color splashed skyway, a human sits. I squint, thinking I recognize him. My recollection's muzzy with what I intuit is a prolonged period of unconsciousness. The man's long and gangly. C-Sec casual blues hang off his spare frame. An almost beard prickles his cheeks and chin. A muss of hair falls over anxious eyes.

"Do I…" My voice sounds like two pages of sandpaper rubbing together. My throat feels like those same two pages.

The man leans forward and scrubs his hair back from his forehead. "Sam." He touches his chest. "Sam Caruso."

I do know him. Memories cascade through my mind until I place his image. Chellik had him working his terminal while I was cuffed to a chair in an interrogation room.

"You were with Ch…" My voice dies.

"Chellik? I was, yeah." Sam rubs the back of his neck and stares at his shoes. "And I've been meaning to…meaning to…"

I raise my brows at him.

A forced, goofy grin stretches his cheeks. "I've been meaning to go get Dakan." Sam slides off the bench. "I'll be right back."

I track his path out of the room. When he passes in front of my bed and I finally notice my suspended leg, I croak. That's as close as I can get to a scream. As the automatic doors _snick_ shut behind Sam, tears tickle the rims of my eyelids.

Straps connected to a metal canopy above my bed hold my leg aloft. Thousands of fine needles poke from pink, swollen, and stitched flesh that stretches from the bottom of my thigh to my ankle. Blue and red and purple lights tip the ends of the needles. Wires of the same color trail from the lights. They connect to a complex pumping system positioned on top of the canopy overhead. The frankenleg attached to my hip can't be mine. I'm a dancer. This leg doesn't look walk capable let alone plie capable. Pitiful creaking comes from my mouth.

The automatic doors open. I swipe the moisture from my cheeks and force my own big goofy grin.

"I don't care who brought her where." Allegra's throaty voice trumpets over whoever else talks. "You've known her for a month. I've been one of her best friends for years. Out of my way, chicken lizard." Allegra hip checks Dakan and bursts into the room. The detective and Sam follow her. At the sight of my leg, her hands go to her mouth. "Oh, Neve." She comes to my bedside, careful not to jostle me or my leg. "I've been so worried about you. I saw you arrested and then everything on the feeds about you and Udina. Then the geth."

I grasp her arm, swallow a sore swallow. "Little Roger. Big Roger."

"They're fine." Allegra's warm smile and the way she pets my arm puts me at ease. I slouch into my pillow as she relates everything that happened to her in my absence.

No matter who she pestered at C-Sec, no one would give her information on me.

"And I couldn't track that one down." Her thumb juts in Dakan's direction. Dakan, who's seated next to Sam on the window seat, crosses his leg over his knee, folds his arms, and rolls his eyes. The turian's foot dances in agitation.

"Once the geth ship came through the relay and Roger reported to the _Overtaker_ for combat duty, me and Little Roger went to one of the shelters for Alliance families. The _Overtaker's_ fine. Damaged, but otherwise fine. Minimal casualties. My husband, thank God, wasn't one of them." Allegra blows a kiss to the heavens. "Roger's still on the _Overtaker_ logging all the repairs and prepping for maintenance work."

"Where Little Roger now?" I croak.

"At the shelter with one of the caretakers."

I swallow again, ramping up for the next question. "Where we now?"

Dakan butts in. "CresCare on Kithoi Ward. There's catastrophic damage on Zakera Ward and on the Presidium or we'd be at Huerta Memorial. From what I understand, your leg reconstruction is progressing well."

I stare at my leg and proceed to gnaw off my lip.

"Am I interrupting?" The raspy question sends devilish chills up my spine. Muscles clench low in my belly. Vlair stands in the entrance to my hospital room. He carries a potted plant.

Dakan says "yes" at the same time that Allegra says "no." Allegra's happily married, but she doesn't hesitate to take her eyeful of Vlair. The drell winks at her. My friend sniffs and turns her nose to the air.

Dakan rises as Vlair crosses in front of my bed and gives my leg a pitying look.

"Upshad, you can get out or I can take you out." Dakan says it quietly and simply without bluster. This is a fact not a threat.

The potted plant goes on the small table to the right of my bed. A tall, twisty stemmed flower grows from a terra cotta vase looped with a rich purple bow. The flower reminds me of an orchid with spiky instead of rounded petals. The bloom gives off a subtle creamy sweetness.

When Dakan makes to remove Vlair, the drell says, "Officer Sirrus is aware of my presence."

"And he let you pass?" Dakan's mandibles fully extend. His shoulders hunch.

"It was one of my conditions."

"Conditions for what?"

"I'm here to remand myself to your custody, detective."

Silence follows the drell's statement. I gape at him, mouth open and brows lifted. Dakan glowers, hands fisted on his narrow hips. The detective slings a pair of kinetic cuffs off his utility belt and takes the wrist of the arm the drell raises.

"Before that," Vlair says, yanking his hand away. "I'm here to speak with Neve."

Amber eyes move to me, to Vlair, to me again, then Dakan grants Vlair and I no more than a foot of space so the drell may fulfill his condition. Since Allegra occupies the sole free standing chair, Vlair squats at my bedside. Green fingers fold at the edge of the mattress. The drell lays his face on his hands.

"You could have avoided this," he nods at my leg, "had you come with me."

Closing my eyes and bracing for the pain of speech, I say, "Price too high."

"Perhaps I could have been more generous. That's why I'm turning myself in."

_Yeah, right,_ the look I give him says.

"One of the reasons, anyway," the drell adds and smiles. "I think in the next weeks you'll come to appreciate me more than I've given you reason to in the past."

_Yeah, right,_ my look says again.

Vlair stands. His hand moves towards my face then draws back and caresses the strange flower instead. A bright kinetic band slaps around the drell's wrist.

"Remember me when you're on your feet again. Remember Band Cluster Agencies."

Dakan secures Vlair's hands behind his back. They march towards the exit. The drell's request circles my thoughts.

_Remember Band Cluster Agencies._

Why would I? Why would I ever place myself in Dalessia Kella's power once more? Allegra bends over me, plants a kiss on my cheek.

"I've got to get back to the shelter. I'll be back tomorrow, OK?"

"I'd like that."

I would. The last time I got squirreled away in Huerta Memorial no one came for friendly visits and I climbed the walls. Dakan hesitates at the door when he sees Allegra leaving.

"I don't want to leave you on your own while Sirrus takes him," the turian says to me, jerking his head at Vlair.

Sam interjects. "I'll be here until you get back."

Satisfied, Dakan allows Allegra to pass before him then he goads Vlair out the door. Sam and I are on our own. The man chews his nails and the sides of his fingers. Unspoken words weight the air, but he doesn't speak, so I settle into my pillow and close my eyes.

"Neve?" Sam asks after a minute.

I open my eyes. On the edge of the window seat, Sam twists his arms and legs like cinnamon sticks. He presses and rubs his lips together, opens them with a loud smack.

"NeveI'vebeenmeaningtosayI'msorry." After he launches the vomitous string of consonants and syllables, his lips snap shut again. I grasp that he's apologizing. I don't know what for.

"Sorry?" My voice cracks and goes out on the end of the word.

"Yeah." Sam slouches against the window, legs spread and arms open and slack at his sides. "I'm a big reason why Chellik found that…recording of you and Dakan."

My eyes widen at this and Sam springs back to the edge of the bench, waving his hands.

"I didn't hand it over to him or anything. It was an accident. I knew Dakan had you under surveillance and I snooped in his files at the wrong moment. I was checking up on Dakan because I didn't trust you. I thought you were using him."

I want to say, _obviously it was the other way around, jackass,_ but all I can do is roll my eyes.

"Chellik caught me poking around and I inadvertently fucked you both over."

I nod my head so hard at that I disturb my poor pin-cushion leg.

_So, what the fuck?_ My wide eyes ask.

"I was wrong about you. I talked to Dakan about it and he said I should talk to you too. So, I am. 'Sorry' doesn't change anything, but I can't make anything up to you or Dakan unless you accept my apology." The fingers he picks at are his focus. He glances up at me. "Will you?"

A complex snarl of emotion grips me. I'm pissed first and foremost. Embarrassed that Sam spied on me. Shocked that he admitted it and apologized. Grateful for the show of submission. Smug that I have a significant degree of power over his future relationship with Dakan which he must value a great deal. Empathy because I understand he acted out of loyalty to his friend. Sorting all that and being ok with the man sitting across from me will take a while. Deep down I sense his sincerity. After a lot of time passes I will come to terms with him.

I nod my acceptance.

Sam blows out the breath he holds. "Whew. I've been holding that in like an incredible fart on a first date."

My snicker is the _erup_ of a bullfrog.

"What's funny?" Dakan asks as he enters. Shrugging, I shake my head. Some silent communication passes from turian to human and Sam vacates his seat.

"Bye, Neve. Thanks," he says and gives Dakan and I some privacy. The turian sits himself in Allegra's old seat. A hard, clawed hand covers mine.

"Are you in pain?"

When I start answering, Dakan says, "Just nod your head. I'll try to keep things 'yes' and 'no.'"

Half my mouth curves up in a smile and I shake my head.

"Good. I know it may not look like it, but your reconstruction is ahead of schedule. You'll be out of here in a week barring complications."

There's no way around a vocalized question. "After that?" I point to my leg.

"Lots of rest and regular physical therapy. Then any cosmetic touch ups you'll want considering your career."

Rubbing my fingers together, I gesture the word _expensive._

"Don't worry about it, Neve." Dakan's mandibles hug his jaws. "There's something else."

I give him my attention, indicating I'm ready for whatever news he has.

"I've been by your resplex."

I shut my eyes because I know what's coming.

"There's not even a building there anymore," Dakan says.

The soft thudding is my head conking against the head board. When I'm discharged I have no where to go. Allegra has the Alliance shelter for as long as she needs it because she's with Roger. If she had her own place I could crash with her in exchange for cleaning and babysitting services. The shelter won't take BFFs of Alliance officers and personnel. And how can I score an apartment when I can't walk, can't work, and can't pay off a fraction of these medical bills?

_Oh, wait, _I think._ I shouldn't stress. There's a holding cell with my name on it._

Dakan reads my mind or my expression. "You are still wanted by C-Sec."

I don't hold the tears back. The blunt side of a talon wipes them away.

"I've set up a potential deal with Chellik. Listen to me all the way through before you nod or shake, OK?"

I nod to that. Dakan takes a breath and continues.

"Instead of a cell, Chellik is willing to hold you under house arrest. Twenty-four-hour surveillance. No coming or going without escort."

_Except I have no home._

"That's a problem with you not having housing anymore."

_Huh-duh._

"Unless you stay with me."

My brows climb to my hairline.

"Unconventional, I realize, but I think we could make it work. You wouldn't be in a cell, but you'd still be under C-Sec surveillance while you recover."

I pinch my lower lip. "Owe you," I say and shake my head. Dakan mirrors my head movement.

"You won't owe me a thing. This is my job." His mandibles flick. "And I want to spend as much time with you as I can. I am trying to win you back, after all. But even if I can't, I wouldn't expect any…recompense."

I study the hand covering mine, at the grooved talons and gnarled, metal plated fingers. The hand clenches my hand.

"Or we can place you with another officer. A human female if that will make you more comfortable."

I shake my head.

"No?" Dakan asks.

I shake my head a second time. "You," I say and Dakan's mandibles wing in and out questioningly. I expand on my answer. "I stay with you."

Dakan lowers his head, squeezes my hand. "I'm pleased beyond expression."

"Alone, please," I say and Dakan interprets me correctly.

"Yes, I see you're tired. I'll be outside or Sirrus will. If you need us, call. Sirrus can get in touch with me no matter where I am."

The turian leaves my side, leaves the room. I gaze at the ceiling a long while, then out the window, count the passing skycars, then to my direct right at the flower Vlair left. Despite its coming from someone I don't find palatable, the blossom's beauty and fragrance makes me smile. As I contemplate its strangeness and interesting shape, my sightline lowers down its twisted stalk and catches on a small envelope I failed to notice before. A card secured by a three pronged, plastic pitchfork, sticks out of the plant's soil. Reaching over, I slip the sealed note form the mini trident. Slanted, elegant script scrolls along the thick bit of stock inside. It reads:

_I will always honor your contract. The two of us are a perfect fit. ;)_

I snort. Vlair's arrogance knows no bounds. He fits no where in my life. But I don't crumple the card in my fist. I don't toss the note in the trash. I tuck the card back into its envelope, slide open the top drawer of my bedside table, and place it inside.

* * *

"Have you seen the feeds?" Dakan asks as he enters the apartment, arms laden with groceries. He dumps them on the counter in our kitchen and comes and takes a seat on the sofa where I recline. The turian straddles the armrest that supports my back. The other armrest props up my not-so-bum-anymore leg. The scars are fading and I regain mobility everyday. I did my first set of barre stretches this morning. Only the grande plies troubled me. I reluctantly pause the romosim in which I'm immersed.

"Guess you haven't," Dakan comments, noting the steamy scene frozen on his lap screen's display.

We've been in this apartment three weeks now. Like my resplex, Dakan's former quarters got razed in the battle of the Citadel. He lived in the C-Sec barracks until my discharge, then scouted a place to rent with the stipend he received for his round-the-clock Neve sitting. Living together has been better than I thought. This place only has one bedroom, but I snubbed the bed when we arrived anyhow. I've been living on the couch. It's more comfortable for my recuperation.

"What's going on?" The haptic screen rests on my lap. All I had access to in CresCare was public news feeds. Endless rebuilding coverage and the same battle highlights reel bore me. When I'm not catching up on my favorite romosim installments Dakan brings from the still standing Beasley's Imports, I scour the extranet for information on the geth that mainstream media won't report.

Conspiracy theories abound. Some claim the council organized the attack. Some blame the Alliance. That's the most popular theory. Rumor has it we engineered the strike to gain the political rewards we reap. Humanity did a lot of the saving during the battle, including leading the charge on Saren's warship. Data on that warship is scarce. Sites cataloguing rumors and facts about the vessel are quickly shut down. The most common name I find for it is Reaper, but most of the sites reporting that aren't particularly reputable. A few speculate that Saren's warship is actually a secret Alliance model humanity tested in our coup attempt on the council. All part of our insidious plans to dominate galactic policy and subjugate its many species. I purse my lips as Dakan uses the screen in my lap to rouse our slumbering entertainment display.

A small spy hole projector set in the wall opposite the couch strobes and a light screen colors the viewing space. Swiping the lap screen from me entirely, he pulls up a menu without closing out of my romosim and tabs through all our stored preferences. A preview of the channel's current content displays next to the highlighted feed. Dakan selects the one he wants and Dalessia Kella's angry face covers our wall.

"You have no idea what you're doing!"

A turian C-Sec officer has Dalessia's front up against the side of his skycar. He struggles to fix biotic dampeners and a pair of kinetic cuffs to her wrists. A graphic header along the bottom of the light screen says: _Prominent businesswoman arrested on suspicion of conspiracy, kidnapping, the attempted murder of human ambassador Donnel Udina. _Dalessia's eyes are wild. She rants at the campanion shoved in her face as clawed hands attempt to shove away the intrusive device.

"You think I'm not fighting for the greater good? Humanity is a disease and they will wipe the rest of us out if we give them the opportunity. Udina is a Cerberus—"

A blue breastplate blocks the asari from view. Incomprehensible shouts drown out the rest of her statement. Static garbles the image. The feed cuts to a shot of ambassador Udina. Whoever films the man chases him from a building to an elevator. A man off camera speaks.

"Ambassador, what's your reaction to Dalessia Kella's accusations?"

Udina's pace doesn't slow and he doesn't look at the reporter. Patches of sweat at his temples and upper lip glisten in the campanion's close-spot.

"The asari in question is obviously troubled." Udina faces the campanion head on when he enters the elevator and inputs his destination. "I hope she receives the care she needs in C-Sec's custody."

The elevator doors close while the reporter calls, "What about Neve Cezetti?"

What about Neve Cezetti indeed.

"How did this happen?" I ask.

Dakan mutes the feed, grinds his fist into his thigh. The answer fights through a clenched jaw. "Upshad."

"Vlair! Are you serious?"

"Didn't come cheap either. I wish there would have been another option."

Tension radiates off Dakan. My mind wanders to the card secreted in my new bag and of Vlair's promise that I would come to appreciate him in the coming weeks. What demands the drell made of C-Sec also snags my curiosity as does his imagined place in my future. The sharp snap of splitting plastic brings my focus back to the turian at my side. He's demolishing the lap screen's frame.

"Hey," I cry and ease the device from his constricting grasp. "I'm not done with that romosim yet." I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood. "What did the lap screen ever do to you?"

Shoehorned merriment fails to infect Dakan. He rests his chin in his hands and grinds his teeth, stares at the silent talking heads pantomiming speech on our wall. I place a hand on his thigh. The turian jolts, looks at me.

"Was the price worth it?" I ask.

Sighing, Dakan leans back against the wall and his mandibles loosen from their tight set at his jaws. "Upshad gave us Kella. He gave us a solid link between her, NOVA, and the drugs."

"What link?"

"A shipping manifest. One of her suppliers got sloppy. Vlair catalogued the damning paper trail before Dalessia deleted it. He had that and a tetrabite of data from her personal files on a drive he turned over. Upshad very well might have handed us NOVA itself wrapped in a pretty bow. All that data coupled with his testimony and yours will be enough to put Kella away for good unless she sells out the rest of her organization in a plea deal."

"My testimony?"

"Yes. There'll be a trial, of course. A very public, all star trial."

I cringe. My fingers curl in the soft fabric covering Dakan's leg. He pats my hand, then holds onto it.

"What did my trousers ever do to you?"

I smile at my lap.

Dakan touches his forehead to the top of my skull and says, "We'll make it through the trial together," then he coughs and clears his throat and pulls back. "That is, ah, well…you know what I mean."

I know what he means.

Besides his mention of a kiss on the Presidium and his concern for me at CresCare, Dakan's kept a respectful emotional distance from me since we've bunked together. Technically, he's my full time jailer, but Chellik has other officers posted at our door at all hours. Dakan still does shift work at the temporary hub, an appropriated set of suites in a business complex, on Zakera Ward until reconstruction of their home base at the Junction is complete. When he's not on shift, he carts me back and forth to and from physical therapy and runs all our errands. We're always chatting and the vibe between us is easy and natural, but Dakan's never pushed for anything more. Just like he promised. Our future is in my hands.

"I-yuh, meant to tell you," Dakan says, "that one of Vlair's many conditions for his full cooperation was that Chellik honor any deals he made with you."

I pounce on Dakan's leg. "My mom?"

The turian nods. "We're working with Earth authorities to secure her and inform her of the details."

I drop my cheek atop my hands. My mom on the Citadel. In treatment. Freedom from the constant stress of wondering whether she's dead or alive. I'm giddy until I recall this is Vlair's doing. The corners of my mouth turn down. That drell is up to something and I'm at the center of it and that's bad. Totally bad. He's too attractive for my own good. A man like him is a tragedy waiting to happen and the man sitting next to me, he's…well, he's not perfect.

Dakan used me. He betrayed my trust, invaded my privacy, and trampled my consent to advance his career. Since then, he's dedicated his entire life to regaining my confidence. Does he have it?

No.

But we're getting there.

Centering his life around me can't go on forever. He needs to know I don't expect that. I can accept all he's done as recompense for the trouble and heartache he's caused and move on without him or I can show him there's a place for a turian in my future.

Stretching up my hand, I brush the side of Dakan's face. His head slants towards me. Cupping my fingers behind his neck, under his fringe, I urge him downward. At the same time, I strain upward and plant my lips on his face plate above his mandible. He rests his hands on my shoulders. When I draw away, he nuzzles my forehead.

"Does this mean I can stop buying you romosims?" Dakan asks.

"What?" I break contact and glare at him.

Dakan gentles my forehead again, laughing. "If we're back together I don't want to buy those things anymore. Everyone at Beasley's makes fun of me."

"We're not back together."

This time, Dakan pulls back. "That wasn't a we're-back-together kiss?"

"That was a maybe-we're-back-together kiss."

"When does the 'maybe' go away?"

"When you bring me more romosims. And snacks."

Shifting from the armrest to the couch, Dakan re-positions me so I lie against his chest. He wedges a pillow between us so his hard chest plates don't dig into my back. The lap screen gets propped in front of us and Dakan re-initializes the steamy scene he paused to show me the news feed.

"This is an awfully intimate position for a maybe-back-together couple," I say and choose how the hero and heroine on the display interact.

"No," Dakan says. "This is a I-want-you-bad-but-I-won't-push-you-further-than-y ou're-ready-for position. Can't you tell?"

"Now that you mention it."

Dakan watches me play, chin resting in the crook of my neck and shoulder.

"So much was damaged, but everything's turned out rather well, hasn't it?" He asks, wrapping his arms around my waist.

"Not too shabby," I reply.

_Not too shabby at all_, I think and make my last selection in the romosim.

The hero and heroine kiss and the screen goes dark.

The End


	53. Chapter 53

**Epilogue: We Can Learn To Love Again**

Cameron sleeps.

Vlair tracks the subtle rise and decline of her chest, the shift of her breasts when she moves on the bunk they share.

_This is it_, he thinks, convincing himself. _This is the last night._

He's been here too long. This thing between he and the woman next to him has developed weight. As he sits, drawing the sight of her down deep, he analyzes her bizarre significance to him and how it developed.

All he thought about after reclaiming his drive from Kella's suite and his brief interlude with Neve was Cameron. The geth left immeasurable casualties. His nurse wasn't among them. Once the lethal activity waned, Vlair had left his hiding space beneath a resplex's outer staircase and had found Cameron outside Open Arms I. The free clinic was one of the three buildings left standing on the block. A stream of wounded and dying filed into the facility, so many more than could ever be saved. The nurse, in her blood marked and rumpled med whites, let the round-cratered exterior wall hold her up. Uneaten taiyaki from a roving vendor she clenched in one hand. A trembling self rolled she pinched between the fingers of her other hand. That first glimpse of her made him quake. Tensed muscles, braced for action and inevitable loss as they always were went noodly.

Vlair stood in the avenue until Cameron noticed him. They came together in a violent embrace, his rifle and her treat and smoke discarded. As he pressed her to him, kissed her face and mouth and twined his fingers in her hair, a twist of fear tightened in his belly. What he craved of Cameron was different than what he craved from Neve. With the dancer he wanted what he always wanted: control, power, to be the conductor of her desire. From Cameron he wanted something more. A validation. A confirmation to a question he could not yet articulate. A nebulous maw opened within him each time he gave himself over to her and it made him cringe. During their entanglement, he pulled her hair until she gasped into his mouth and he bit her lower lip beyond the point of pleasure. Cameron shoved away from him, panting, lip bloodied.

"Are you mad?" She had said, wiping her mouth and probing the tender curve of her bottom lip.

"An accident," Vlair had said. He'd looped his arms loosely around her, drawing her back in. "This feels like a dream."

"I'm real."

_Yes, you are._ Vlair thought it then and he thinks it sitting next to her now. _And I will figure you out. I will master you and move on and I don't need to be here to do that._

With his bare legs dangling over the side of Cameron's bunk and a tangle of sheets blanketing his groin, Vlair touches the nurse's forehead, trails his finger down the slope of her nose which twitches. She knocks his hand away with a sleep-droopy arm and turns to the wall. He's cohabitated with her for weeks and his interest in her hasn't diminished. Her pull on him is as intense as it was when he found her at the clinic.

"This is the last night," Vlair whispers into the gloom of the studio apartment.

Abandoning the bunk and the woman in it, Vlair pads across the chilly floor. Draped over the chair at Cameron's desk are his clothes. He dresses and tallies the differences in her living space since he's lived in it.

While her resplex came out of the battle with negligible damage, looters picked the apartments clean. All of Cameron's tech, her p-terminal and VR rig and her vid-game collection, is gone, assimilated by the pawn shops and black market. The place is more of a cell now than ever, but at least a clean one. Vlair has seen to that.

In absence of a mistress or a hanar guardian to serve, Vlair has kept his days busy scrubbing Cameron's apartment when she's on shift, making his reports to C-Sec when needed, and finalizing his accounts and documents under his new identity. C-Sec has met all of his requirements for use of his unique expertise. The organization will provide ongoing protection should he need it from any NOVA operatives or any of the Illuminated Primacy's assassins that might be dispatched to exact revenge.

Genetic alteration comprises part of his new, C-Sec approved, identity and cover. The procedure goes on the organization's tab. The prospect of changing his appearance clouds Vlair's already overcast mood. He strokes the swatch of his chest the squared neckline of his outerskin suit reveals. Its deep green color is one of his best features. Put off consultation reminders clog his p-sig inbox. Ads for undamaged and newly renovated resplexes and business malls sandwich between the consultation notices from gen-specialized cosmetic tailors. He can purchase a new face, a new home, and a new business space on the Presidium outright. Assassination fees, bonuses, and C-Sec's transmitted funds have him flush with more credits than he needs to live and seed his entrepreneurialship on the Ring for more than a year. All he must do is begin. Just leave this barren little hovel. Unfortunately, all his unscheduled time he spends with some part of himself buried between Cameron's legs or driven into her mouth. The nurse is a difficult home to leave. She has accepted his benign invasion of her person and apartment with no small amount of amusement.

"Do I have a drell husband?" She'd asked, laughing upon her return in the middle of their first week together after the battle. The nurse had caught him collecting empty cans that littered her floor and wiping layers of gummy residue off her countertops.

The memory hardens the set of Vlair's mouth. He slips on his shoulder holster, complete with a brand new pistol, and shrugs on his jacket. The weapon eases from its fitted pocket. The drell's fingers contour around its familiar shape.

_I'm no one's husband. No one's tool. No one's pet. No one's possession. Never again._

Gripping the pistol, Vlair takes sure steps towards the bunk and the slumbering woman. Booted feet are uncannily silent as he moves over the uncarpeted floor. His arm slants downward. The pistol touches Cameron's temple. Like he wavers on the edge of an unfathomable abyss, the drell's stomach flutters. His breath comes too fast and his hand shakes. Cameron makes a drowsy, discontented sound. Her eyelids crinkle.

Sitting up, the nurse rubs her bleary eyes with the heel of her palm. Vlair is rigid, his pistol clasped in two hands behind his back. She doesn't have to be asleep. Hands and weapon twitch at his lower back. It will be over before she registers his intent. Before she sees him move.

_No loose ends._

"You're leaving, aren't you?" Cameron asks. Heavy breasts plump over the sheet wrapped at her waist. The desire to cup them almost drives Vlair back into the bunk.

"Yes," he says.

"Why?"

Cameron's wide yawn closes her eyes which gives Vlair the opportunity to put his back to her, secret the pistol into the folds of his jacket without her notice.

"Vlair?"

The drell heads for the door. "Because you deserve better," he says then the outside welcomes him and the automatic doors shut the life that entices him away.

Ties that bind Vlair to Cameron stretch as he stalks the wards. They don't break. In the hotel room his rents for the week, he lays on a bed that consumes the suite, massaging that same bare swatch of his chest. Behind skin and sinew and bone, a sore ache pulses. Closing his eyes, he systematically plucks each memory of Cameron from his thoughts and replaces them with Neve. Venom dissolves the pain that swells behind his heart. The dancer is his future.

First, he'll have to get her away from that laughable turian. The easiest way to accomplish that is an appeal to her substantial vanity and lust for fame. His new talent agency on the Presidium, filled with a high profile list of Kella's scalped clients, will be more than she can resist.

Work leaves Vlair little time to dwell on Cameron. When the nurse surfaces in his mind, he launches himself into a fresh project, finds another woman to play with. This is how he spends the long months preceding the reopening of Band Cluster Agencies.

Vlair fastens his talent mill's brass placard to his new suite's door then enters his offices. Messages need sending. Talent needs booking. The drell massages his forehead. A tension headache doubles his vision. Though he strives for total erasure, Cameron's scent, the sound of her voice, persists.

The weight of her presence lingers.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** Please, stay tuned for a teaser snippet from CS2 and acknowledgements!_


End file.
